


Tale As Old As Time

by basketoflightning



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-19 06:09:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3599277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basketoflightning/pseuds/basketoflightning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Big Bad is back and determined to finally kill the Slayer once and for all. But everything goes to hell when a visit from some creepy old bint has Spike stuck in some sort of bloody spell, and things only get worse when the solution to his problems seem to involve making nice with a certain annoying blonde. Set sometime S4, pre-chip.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In which there is a visitor

Spike was finally ready.

He’d vowed it before, he supposed. Quite a few times, some might say; often loudly and with a suitably devilish amount of venom. But tomorrow? Tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow, he was going to kill the Slayer.

And god, he couldn’t wait. The scene had played out in Spike’s mind so many times and in so many different ways. There had been no escape. Every kill he made, every time he’d hunted and toyed and fed, it had been so easy to close his eyes and pretend whichever pretty blonde melting under him that night was her. Even sleeping had been no escape when his dreams every night played with flashes of the Slayer.

Spike had it all thought out for once. Everything in him was screaming for him to get up and find the Slayer right that second: to stroll right up to her fancy house, sunlight be damned, and challenge her to a good ol’ brawl. But he’d tried that before, and it hadn’t resulted in much more than one extremely pissed off slayer and a few hours of Harmony’s disgusting clucking and tittering as she patched Spike back up. So, Spike would wait. Spike would wait until the Slayer patrolled that night - all alone and delightfully ambushable. With such calculated patience, Peaches would’ve been proud of him, or at least temporarily less hateful. Though with that pesky soul? Maybe not.

His life had been leading up to the moment he would drain her for years now. Everything that had gone wrong in his unlife lately was her fault when you thought about it. If the Slayer hadn’t gone and got all smoochy with Peaches, Spike’s Dru would never have gone crawling back to her precious daddy. Spike would never have had to team up with the bloody Slayer in the first place, and Dru would never have left him.

And he supposed he would be happy.

So he was going to sink his fangs into her pretty little neck, and it was going to be bloody magnificent.

“Blondie bear?” Harmony writhed next to him, her naked body pressing up against him. “Whatcha thinking ‘bout?”

If you’d asked him a few years ago, Spike would have said a queen sized bed was more than enough space for two. Recent months with Harmony had changed that opinion rather drastically.

“I’m thinkin’ you’re beautiful, baby,” Spike replied lazily. “That’s what I’m always thinkin’.”

After all, ‘I’m thinking about the Slayer’ probably wouldn’t have gone down too well. Not that he was too concerned about Harmony’s feelings, but Spike had a feeling she wouldn’t be so keen to let him shag her when his mind was full of thoughts of certain annoying blonde do-gooders. When it came to that, he’d learned his lesson with Dru.

And Dru, as perfect as she was, really was not someone he wanted to think about right now. Not while he was alone with a cheap fling. Not when she’d left him. Not until he could get her back.

He hadn’t even opened his eyes as he spoke, but Harmony’s girlish squeal was enthusiastic enough for the both of them. Christ, you’d think he’d proposed.

“Oh, Spikey.” Her mouth pressed up against his, leaving behind stray streaks of too-sweet cherry lipgloss. “You always know just what to say.”

“It’s a talent, my little deflated football,” he told her with a yawn.

Spike smirked, and moved to wrap his body around hers. He was hard already, and it was probably better to blow off steam before tomorrow anyway. Though, if he was going to be tasting slayer’s blood any time soon…

Well, the memories of the last time he’d feasted on that particular aphrodisiac were more than enough to help him forget who exactly he was fucking into next week.

What would Summers taste like, he wondered? Thinking back, it was a shame he’d only ever tasted the one slayer and not two. Nikki had put up a good old fight, after all, and it wouldn’t have done much harm to have had a nummy treat while he’d had the chance. His first slayer had tasted divine, of course: sweet and bitter all at once with one hell of an aftertaste to top her off.

Just thinking about it made Spike shiver.

But perhaps this slayer would be different. Because Summers was different. He’d never fought anyone quite like her in all his years; nobody had made him feel quite as alive as she did when she bent her sweet little body to punch him in the face.

There was no question about it. Her blood would be divine.

“God, Spike.” Harmony never could shut up, but it really would have been a treat. “Oh, blondie bear. That’s-- yeah, that’s really good. Yeah. Oh, god--”

Smoothly, he flipped them so that the more vocal side of her body was buried in pillows.

“Spike,” she cried blissfully again, but muffled like it was it could have been anybody moaning. “Spike, that’s so good, I’m--”

In fact, with the long blonde hair tickling his forearms, it could have been somebody in particular. Somebody hot and lean with hazel eyes that could burn into his own with a single piercing glare--

Bloody hell. Tomorrow really couldn’t come soon enough.

-

“Blondie bear?”

Maybe - just maybe - if Spike kept his eyes closed, she’d let him sleep. He’d been having a particularly enthralling dream that had included several cameos from the recently popular guest star of his subconscious.

“Platinum baby?”

No.

“Listen, I’m going out. I have a wax booked for four, and if I’m late the cute beautician I want to eat might go home. I’ll see you later, okay?”

Spike rolled over and let out a snore that even he had to admit was unconvincing.

It took what seemed like forever for Harmony to stop nattering and leave, but Spike kept firmly still until she did. Couldn’t be missing his beauty sleep. At least not with his big day tomorrow.

But even after she left, Spike just couldn’t get back to sleep. Harmony’s crypt was cold and quiet and devoid of its owner which happened to be exactly how he liked it. But what with all his dreams and his fantasies, Spike imagined he felt like a kid on Christmas eve.

He was doing this for Dru, but it was funny. She would hate it if she could see him now, lying awake with thoughts of the Slayer. This was the reason she had left him, but he just couldn’t seem to stay away. That would all change when he brought his black goddess Summers’ head.

And he would. Bugger his plans, he would. Sitting here doing nothing but pacing like a caged panther wasn’t doing Spike any favours, and every minute he spent thinking about the Slayer was a minute without his hands at her throat.

It had to be afternoon by now, Spike figured. This time of year, that meant he wouldn’t have too many problems dealing with a little bit of sunshine as long as he kept to the shadows and didn’t do anything stupid. Of course, knowing himself, that wasn’t something he could count on. ‘Stupid’, ‘Spike’, and ‘being around the Slayer’ seemed to go together as well as worn leather dusters and Docs did, by which Spike meant perfectly.

He’d take the sewers, then, but he’d better check the sky first. If it was too bright out, Spike figured his trusty blanket would come in useful, but he would really rather leave it at home. He wanted - no, he needed - the Slayer to tremble when he destroyed her, and he had the inklings of a feeling that scampering around in a pile of rags really didn’t do much to perpetuate his Big Bad persona.

The door to Harmony’s crypt creaked as he opened it an inch. He took it as a good sign when sunlight didn’t pour in and singe his still nude frame, and peered a steady eye through the gap.

A few moments later, Spike was delighted to confirm that yes, he still actually had eyes, which seemed to indicate that the weather was decidedly in his favour. It was a good day to kill a slayer, and that’s all Spike needed. A good day.

If Dru was here, he decided, she’d egg him on with sweet words in his ear.

“My Spike,” she’d say, her voice lapping at his insides and outsides and every other side of him that there had ever been like poetry. “My precious knight is going to eclipse the sunshine, he is. He’s going to make her burn.”

And then? Then he’d push her up against a wall and she’d let him make love to her again and again and again until she couldn’t argue with him when he told her he was hers. There’d be no more of this bloody Slayer bullshit. No more bloody ‘tasting like ashes’. No more having to watch her sleep around and push him away and tell him nasty somethings that cut parts of him he’d been trying to kill for over a century--

Oh, who was he kidding? Things between he and Dru had never been flawless, slayer or no. But a man had to try, and that was exactly what Spike was going to do.

It was when he turned around to grab his clothes that he heard it. Even for a vampire, Spike’s hearing was excellent, and he knew someone was outside well before they got anywhere closed enough to knock.

And knocking was unusual in itself. To simplify it: Spike was a vampire. Most people he knew here in Sunnyhell - not that he was a fledgling social butterfly, by any means - were also vampires. Vampires, due to the small catch of evilness that came with being a vampire, were not often the biggest proprietors of proper manners. There were exceptions, of course, but Spike could really not imagine anybody caring enough about respecting Harmony’s crypt to dot their i’s and cross their t’s.

And yet, there was somebody knocking on the door.

“Just a sec,” Spike grumbled, slipping into his jeans with a sigh. If this was a bloody sales visit--

Spike answered the door, shirtless and frowning.

Before him stood a woman, and underneath the rags she was wearing, that was about all Spike was able to make out. He’d thought his own anti-sunlight blanket was bad, but this chit’s own cover made his blanket look like a contender for a bunch of bloody fashion awards.

“Yeah?” Spike scratched his hair, mindful of his curly bedhead. He’d need to gel it before going hunting for the Slayer. A man had to look his best on these sorts of occasions. “And what do you want, lady?”

If this was one of Harmony’s weird friends-- oh, wait, he forgot. The bint didn’t have any friends.

“A moment of your time, if I may,” the woman replied. Her voice was soft, but in a way that was worn. So the chit was probably getting on in her years then. Now, Spike didn’t usually like to eat anybody starting to get stale, but he really had worked up an appetite that afternoon.

“I didn’t know they did brekkie to order now,” Spike said cheerfully.

A little test of his reflexes might do him some good, so perhaps he’d give this old lady a head start. A wolfish grin playing on his lips, Spike put on his game face.

The old woman didn’t move.

“You know, lady, this is usually when they start runnin’,” Spike suggested helpfully.

It was like he hadn’t even spoken. The silly bint didn’t even stiffen under all those rags, just standing there and staring at him like some kinda gormless git. He could hear her heartbeat as clear as day, and even it was frustratingly level even as Spike gave her his best snarl. It was more rude than anything, really. Didn’t this chit know Spike was the Big Bad around these parts now?

“Hello, William.”


	2. In which everything goes to hell

“Hello, William.”

Immediately Spike took two steps back, his game face slipping away. Breakfast - at least the nice everyday kind - was not supposed to know him.

“Alright,” he said, arms folded. “How ‘bout you tell me exactly who you are before I get bored and decide to take a bite?”

The threat really hadn’t been empty (he was hungry, after all) but the stupid bint still reacted with as little terror as if he’d been discussing the weather. It only made Spike’s glare that much fiercer.

“Me?” The old bint shook slightly as if she was laughing underneath her tattered robes. “Oh, silly boy. That’s nothing for you to fret about.”

“Really now?” Spike said. “I’m thinkin’ I’ll be the judge of that, pet.”

“Will you now?” the woman said, laughter still on her lips.

Great. This was exactly what he’d needed, wasn’t it? Some nosy old hag come to disturb him on his big day. Maybe it was a little odd that she knew him, but honestly? Any bumbling bookworm with a passing interest in vampiric history would probably recognise him by sight. He was William the Bloody after all.

William the Bloody, who should be sinking his fangs into a certain little slayer right that very moment.

“Oh, what the fuck?” Spike sighed, and he pounced upon her neck.

Or he tried to, at least. The moment his fangs protruded, there was a loud snapping noise, and his body was wracked with a searing pain.

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you to play nice with others?” the old bint asked.

“Oi!” Spike clutched his mouth, his cry garbled. “What kinda game are you playin’ here?”

He hadn’t thought to consider it before, what with the hag’s heartbeat being so clear, but was this chit even human? Not many humans went around knocking on suspicious looking crypts, now that he thought about it. Even if said crypts were covered in Harm’s frilly pink accessories.

Maybe a witch, then. Because that was just spiffy.

“Game?” the hag said, unfazed. “There is no game, William. I’d simply like to request a trade.”

“It’s Spike now, actually.” Spike frowned. “And what kinda trade are we talkin’ ‘bout?”

“A trade,” the hag repeated. “An exchange between us made with good will. Surely you can oblige an old woman?”

Spike made a face, turning around to find his shirt. This was not part of the plan. This had never been part of the plan. Why could he never stick to the bloody plan?

“Look, pet. You’ve caught me at a bad time.” Spike gestured with wide arms at nothing in particular. “I’m sure your mumbo-jumbo speak would be just fan-bloody-tastic if I wasn’t so busy, but as it happens I gotta slayer to kill.”

“You seek to kill the Slayer?” She seemed almost amused.

“You’re obviously new here,” Spike said, pulling one of his many ratty black shirts over his head with practised ease. “Yeah, that’s me. I wanna end her real bad.”

“Is that so?” the hag said. “Then what I have to say will be of some value to you then, I expect.”

Spike stared at her with hooded eyes. “Are you sayin’ you can help?”

“I offer you this,” the hag spoke. “There are those that would hunt me. If you agree to harbour me here at this place and provide your protection as a master vampire, you will receive a great deal in return.”

“Uhuh,” he said. “And this ‘great deal’, what exactly would that be?”

From underneath her rags, there emerged a spindly arm. Entangled in the fingertips of this arm was a single red rose. Spike waited.

“Right,” he said finally as the seconds dragged by. “Did I need to repeat the question, pet?”

The hag’s hand extended, offering the red rose to Spike.

“In return for aiding me, you may have this single red rose,” the hag said. “It is all I have left in this world, and my greatest treasure.”

Spike stared.

“You pulling my leg?” he asked. “Because if you’re just Red in a wig, I’m--”

He broke off, bewildered. The hag’s hand still offered the rose.

“How this hell is a bloody rose going to help me against the Slayer?” Spike snapped.

“It is all I have left in the world,” the hag repeated. “You would be wise to accept. Even if you are not tempted by the rose, there must be some goodwill in your heart to sway your judgement.”

Any coherent sentence Spike could have formed then got stuck in his throat, and he snarled with open frustration. In one swift motion, he’d ripped the red rose from the old hag’s hand and tossed it with rage onto the ground where it lay still.

“Goodwill? Fuckin’ goodwill?” Spike growled. “I know nobody in this sodding town takes me seriously these days, but I have had it to here with you people treating me like some kind of annoyance instead of the bloody Big Bad. I’m evil. Evil!” To hammer in his point, he advanced on the hag with heavy footing. “You know what? I’m done. I’m going to rip off your fucking witchy head and feed it to the Slayer before I drink from her neck like the goddamn chalice it is. And then? Then I’m getting the hell outta dodge.” He paused. “Well, might get myself one of those bloomin’ onion things in celebration first.”

Spike lost it, and threw himself forward to throw a punch aimed at the hag. And just when his fist was about to connect--

Snap.

He recoiled instantly, doubling back in a fit of pain that was one hundred times worse than last time. Spike was vaguely aware that he’d landed on the floor in a tangle of limbs, and the old hag towered above him. Oh, bollocks.

“You dare?” the old hag hissed. “I offer you the hand of acceptance and you dare?”

“You offered me a bloody rose, you stupid bint,” Spike fired back, and immediately regretted it when he writhed in a fresh wave of pain once more. Him and his big-yet-ruggedly-handsome-sized mouth.

“You disgust me,” she spat at him. “You could be so much more.”

“You’re getting pissy ‘cause I won’t help you for some sodding flower?” Spike scoffed. “Listen, pet, you’re the one who charges in here with--”

Another dose of pain. He groaned loudly.

“Such impertinence cannot be allowed to continue unchecked, William,” the hag said from above. “You do understand, don’t you?”

Spike bit down on his lip as the pain hit him once more.

“Oi, that time I didn’t even say anything!” he grumbled, panting.

There was no reply.

Slowly, Spike raised his head. In the place the old hag had been stood a woman dressed in pure white. The rags he’d eyed with a sneer were gone entirely, replaced by dark ringlets that fell past the woman’s shoulders. She was drop-dead gorgeous, Spike supposed, but he honestly wasn’t surprised. It seemed that was a common trait shared among all the women trying to kill him these days.

“So you’re pretty,” Spike said before he could stop himself. “That doesn’t change anythin’. I’m not helping you.”

“So be it,” the woman said. “You’ve chosen your fate. It has been set in stone. There is room for love in your heart, and I had thought that might save you. But it seems it is too late.”

The woman’s eyes closed and from her lips came words in a language Spike had never even heard before. That was never a good sign as far as he was concerned.

“Wha--?”

Spike was cut off as webs of light appeared from thin air, wrapping themselves around Spike’s limbs. They grabbed his wrists and ankles; he was slammed against the wall adjacent to Harmony’s bed so hard he thought he might smash through. That had happened before, thinking about it, but this was a far cry from the ‘sexy bedroom fun’ scenario he was remembering. Ahem.

“For all your sins, I speak as your judge.” Finally, the woman spoke in English, though he almost preferred it when she hadn’t been. “I curse thee, William Pratt. With all of my power, I take away yours.”

The webs of light that had been holding him grew stronger, until they burned against his skin so hotly Spike started to smoke.

“May you never harm another living creature with your foul mortal form. You shall not be a monster but you shall not be a man.”

Spike opened his mouth to speak - to say something, anything, everything to get her to stop - but could only scream when the beam of light shot up and poured inside of him. It was the foulest thing he’d ever felt; everything inside of him knew what was happening to be unspeakably wrong, and Spike’s demon was choking and screaming too.

“Ah,” the woman said. “But I can still see light inside of you, and I am nothing but merciful. So I will give you a single chance for redemption, William Pratt.”

He couldn’t move even if his body wasn’t fixed to the wall. His entire body was howling, screeching, melting.

The woman met Spike’s eyes with her own. “There is but one way to break your curse. You must learn to love another, and earn her love in return.” From the ground, she picked up the (untarnished) rose he’d snatched away earlier. “Before the last petal on this rose falls, you must both love and be loved.”

Love? Love was Spike’s forte. He was, even after all this time, love’s bitch. And he always would be.

A small smirk tugged at the side of his mouth. Whatever this crazy bint was trying to do to him, she obviously didn’t know Spike well enough to carry it out well and proper. Half of her ridiculous terms were already carried out: whatever had happened between them, Spike was still in love with Dru. And even before Ms Tall, Dark and Witchy had come knocking at his - or Harm’s, he amended - door, Spike had been planning on getting Drusilla back anyway. All he’d need to do was bring her the Slayer’s head.

_But even before this giant fuck up with the Slayer and Sunnyhell, Dru never really loved you. Not like you loved her._

Spike scowled, cutting off his own thoughts sharply. He wasn't about to go there. This was his _new_ plan, and a man could only have so much bad luck.

But as if she had been reading his mind, the witch woman smiled herself.

“The woman you must earn the love of…” Her gaze burned into him. “I believe you know her as the Slayer. Her name is Buffy Summers.”

Oh, _bloody hell_.


	3. In which there are late night shenanigans

In the end, Spike had stuck to the plan.

At his feet discarded cigarette butt after discarded cigarette butt lay in a disorganised pile, testament to his wait. He scowled at them as he glanced down. The whole situation he’d found himself in was plainly pathetic, but spending the last few hours hovering behind a lone tree outside Revello Drive possibly took the metaphorical cake of shame.

The witch’s spell had finished with a bang and it had been several hours later that he’d awoken on the ground, swollen and bruised in all the wrong places. There had been no sign of the Witchy Wonder since, which he almost regretted. Maybe she’d caught him off guard back there with her fancy magic, but Spike figured a well timed blow to the head would do the world a bit of good. Or it would have made him feel better, at least.

Bitch.

And even hours later, Spike’s body still felt decidedly wrong. For being dead, he’d found himself to be in decidedly good shape prior to those sodding wriggly worms of light shoving themselves down his throat. Now he felt… well, not dirty, but like somebody had shoved the bleach he so often lovingly applied to his roots down his stomach and let it burn. His demon hadn’t stopped howling once.

There was no doubt about it: the witch-bitch had done something to him. Something Spike did not like at all.

And truthfully, by now Spike had a fair idea of what it was. He’d been awake for the whole ‘curse’ part of the witch’s visit. She’d spoken to him. She’d wanted him to hear exactly what she was doing to him. And he had.

_May you never harm another living creature with your foul mortal form._

The first thing he’d wanted after regaining his consciousness had been a snack. Well, no. That was a lie. The first thing he’d wanted was to see the cold, dead body of the witch in front of him. The second thing he’d wanted was the Slayer’s body lying right next to it. But the third thing had definitely been a snack.

He had resolved to eat first and deal with the whole mess later. There was no use thinking on an empty stomach. So Spike had went out for a prowl earlier around his usual haunts. He’d been out long enough for the sun to have firmly gone down, leaving the cool, heavy air of dusk in its wake. And at first it had all been so easy.

Spike had been doing the dance long enough now that he barely needed to try in any way. His body’s autopilot knew exactly how the night would go. There was a pretty girl at the bar because there was always a pretty girl at the bar. He’d catch her eye because he’d always catch their eyes. It would only ever take a few glances: a smirk, a raised eyebrow, his eyes soft and hard all at once in the way girls fawned over.

It had worked because it always worked.

He’d had her cornered in a dark alleyway. It was embarrassing, really, how easily a pretty face could lure people into places so easily turned dangerous. Spike had been so close; she was pressed against him and a dampened brick wall, exhaling in excited pants, leaning closer in hopes of a kiss. He’d vamped easily enough, and moved his fangs inches closer to the woman’s pulsating neck--

Sonofabitch.

“Ow, what the bleedin’ fuck?!” Spike had spluttered, pushing the woman away.

The pain had been immense, searing through him like hot arrows. There’d been a flash of harsh blue light around them both as he attacked, bright and blinding. A startled glimpse of Spike’s game face was enough to send the chit running, and just like that he’d been left without dinner.

Still hovering in Revello Drive, even the memory of the way his body had reacted to violence made Spike grimace. He’d wandered around the streets for another hour or two before arriving here and picked up a handful more potential snacks on the way. It had been the same with each and every one of them. As soon as Spike had been about to move in for the kill, he’d been frozen in agony and the creepy blue light had driven away his nummy din-dins.

 _May you never harm another living creature with your foul mortal form_ , he remembered once more. That had been what the witch-bitch had told him.

This was her fault then. It had to be. The curse she had cast was stopping him from taking what should rightfully be his. He couldn’t hurt any ‘living creature’: not men, not women, and Spike was even getting bad tinglies stepping on the grass under his feet. It was vile. The witch had taken away everything that made him a vampire.

And he was getting really fucking hungry, damn it.

But Spike remembered what the witch had said. There was a way to remove the curse, wasn’t there? And knowing that was what had brought him here, loitering outside a certain house. He recalled the words the witch had spoken exactly. There was a cure.

Spike had to get the Slayer to fall in love with him.

If he wasn’t so brassed off, the concept alone might have given him a good chuckle. The Slayer. In love. With him? In a way, he really had to admire the ingenuity the sparkly bint had used in choosing his ‘road to redemption’. There was just enough to get his hopes up for a cure, but there was no way in hell said cure was ever going to happen.

“Bitch,” he repeated once more, casting forlorn looks at the cigarette remains below.

For once, Spike had no idea what to do. He could try to track down the witch, he supposed. Tie her up. Torture her nice and slow until she fixed him. But he’d visited Willy’s earlier that day, and even his detailed description of the witch-bitch, his well practised glare and half of the money he’d been carrying in his back pockets had earned him little more than shrugs and terrified spluttering.

If he was going to find the woman, he would need someone well-versed in mystical figures and witchy powers. Someone who had books on nearly every subject or maybe someone who dabbled in the arts herself. Someone right here in Sunnyhell, even.

He needed the Watcher or the Slayer’s pet witch, but hell would freeze over before that happened. The Slayer would stake him on sight if she caught sight of him now, especially with what had happened with the whole Amara debacle of bullshit not so long ago. She’d probably douse him with holy water then stake him if she found him standing outside her little lair of do-gooders.

It was understandable that they wouldn’t help. Spike supposed he had tried to kill them once or a dozen times, but he was practically a neutered puppy at this point. He couldn’t hurt a daisy. In fact, as loathe as he was to admit it, he was almost as pathetic as they were. Well, almost. The lot of them were disgustingly noble.

Why his legs had carried him to Revello Drive was anyone’s guess, then. There was nothing he could do. No way out. He certainly wasn’t about to fall head over heels for the Slayer, and she and her band of merry annoyances weren’t about to help set the Big Bad loose on her town once more. If Spike hadn’t liked living so much, he would have given some serious thought to staking himself. But he did very much like living.

“I’ll be back later, okay? Don’t wait up for me.”

Oh, bloody hell.

The Slayer emerged from her little love nest, closing the door behind her. She was standing only a few feet away - alone and not entirely on guard, he noted automatically. Twenty four hours ago, this very moment would have been his realised version of a vampiric wet dream. But with his shiny new curse, the most Spike could do to her is throw a little bit of British snark in her face before she staked him good and proper.

She was out for patrolling. Or Spike assumed so, anyway, considering her outfit. Form fitting black leggings coupled with a strappy vest; she was dressed for business, not pleasure. Unless she considered staking unsuspecting vamps going about their evenings pleasurable… which thinking about it, she almost certainly did.

And speaking of the Slayer’s vampicidal habits, Spike really had to leave. Now.

“...Spike?”

Great. This day was going so well for him. With his luck, he’d go home that night and find Peaches and Dru bumping uglies in Harmony’s bed.

But for now, Spike had one extremely pissed off looking slayer to deal with. As if he had been intending their encounter, he pushed a smirk onto his lips and leaned against the trunk of his tree.

“Slayer,” Spike replied with a passive nod. “Fancy seeing you here.”

She came at him before he could say ‘bollocks’. Even - perhaps especially - when she was kicking his ass, he’d always had to give props to her fighting style. A stake had somehow materialised in her hand like she’d never been without it and in one smooth motion, the Slayer had Spike pinned to the ground, stake to his chest as she straddled him.

“Are you insane or just stupid?” The Slayer poked the tip of her stake through his shirt, tearing a hole. “Wait, I forgot. I don’t care. You should have left while you had the chance, Spike.”

It was on instinct that Spike acted. If he was going to die, it would be pitiful to have gone down this easily. The Slayer was incredibly strong, but she was light, and he used that to throw her smaller frame off his larger one. Of course, she rolled back to a fighting stance almost instantaneously, but it gave Spike enough time to stumble back to his feet an--

“ARGH!” Spike dropped back to his knees, clutching at his head. “Bugger off! You can’t let me off the hook for self defence, you creepy bitch?”

“Spike?”

He didn’t look up. He could run, but the Slayer was faster. What had he been thinking? Just ‘casually’ lurking outside the stronghold of his sworn enemy? Maybe that witch had done something to Spike’s brain while she was at it.

“Just stake me and be done with it then,” Spike sighed, lifting his shirt. “Actually, wait. Let me take off the coat first. Be a poppet and make sure it gets a good home once I’m gone.”

He slipped out of his duster and braced himself tightly, eyes shut.

Oh well. This was it, then. He really had wanted to live. There was going to be a new episode of Passions airing tomorrow night and the teaser trailer had been hinting little Timmy had gotten himself stuck down a well.

“Spike?” the Slayer asked again.

“Just get on with it, Slayer.” Spike opened one eye. “I’m not getting any less vampire-y, here.”

Though he supposed he was, but she didn’t have to know that.

The Slayer was glaring at him, still extremely pissed. She stood upright before him, her stake brandished in the air above his kneeling form. With the moonlight shining down on her blonde locks, she looked almost divine.

“Are you plannin’ to knight me or stake me here, Slayer?” he said, his eyes narrowing.

She was silent. The Slayer’s eyes were trained on him like knives. He stared backed coolly.

“Haven’t got all night, Slayer,” Spike added.

More silence. And then--

“You’re going to answer my questions. What was that weird blue flash when you pushed me?” The Slayer’s arms folded across her chest. “And why aren’t you fighting back for once? Not that it’s not a nice change.”

Spike made a face. “You’ll get nothing out of me, Slayer. Now, hurry up and finish me.” He waggled an eyebrow. “And you can take the meaning of that whichever way you like, pet.”

Without hesitation, she punched him in the face.

“You’re disgusting, Spike,” she said. “Now answer my questions.”

“Don’t mind if I don’t.” He faked a yawn. “Come on, now. Don’t drag this out. It’s not doing much for my ego.”

Again, Spike received a delightful dose of her knuckles on his noggin.

“Answer me,” she demanded.

He rolled his eyes. “For the last time, no.”

That ticked her off. The Slayer raised her fist as if she was about to punch him again, but then stopped, looking thoughtful.

“If you don’t answer my questions,” she said. “After I stake you, I’ll personally set your coat on fire.”

Oh, that bitch. Spike’s face fell.

“You wouldn’t,” Spike said, horrified.

“I would.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I totally would, and you know it,” the Slayer said with a grin. “So answer my questions.”

Because of course the Slayer couldn’t just stake him. No, that would be too humane. First she had to strip Spike of his pride piece by piece. She’d probably laugh at him for being a sad excuse for a vampire before she dusted him.

“Fine,” he snapped. “Dear ol’ Spike has been neutered. Some witch-bitch showed up, cast a bunch of magic mumbo-jumbo, and now I can’t hurt anyone. I’m a joke.” He sneered. “You can laugh now, Slayer.”

To her credit, she didn’t fall to the ground giggling, but her eyes did light up. “Are you telling me you’re harmless?”

Spike bit his tongue. Hard. The notion that there would ever be a reality where they could love one another seemed all the more ridiculous.

“I’m telling you that you can stop drawin’ this thing out and stake me now,” Spike huffed.

“Harmless,” the Slayer said again. “Spike. You. You’re harmless.”

And now she really did laugh. He’d never heard the Slayer laughing before, Spike realised. Maybe it was because he’d been expecting it that it didn’t fill him with as much seething hatred as it should.

“Laugh it up,” Spike told her.

She did, almost giggling now. “Okay, as hilarious as this situation is, I have things to do.” She stiffened slightly. “So…”

“So?” he asked.

“So I’m going to stake you now,” she clarified.

“Alright then,” Spike said. He pulled up his shirt again.

“It’s the right thing to do,” the Slayer told him slowly.

“That’s a matter of perspective, pet,” he offered.

She bit her lip. “I don’t really have any other options.”

Was the Slayer… was she hesitating? On one hand, Spike was a bit miffed that the Slayer didn’t see him as enough of a threat to stake him no questions asked. On the other hand, he really wanted to watch that episode of Passions. And maybe steal enough money to buy a nummy onion flower thing.

“You could,” he slipped in with what Spike believed was a smooth use of subtlety, “let me go. That’d be nice.”

The Slayer rolled her eyes. “Yeah, that’s not going to happen.”

Spike shrugged. “Worth a shot.”

He let himself relax slightly as the Slayer eased up a little, turning to pace ever so slightly as she talked. If he was going to dust, it wasn’t going to be in the next few seconds. And wasn’t that a cheerful thought?

“I…” She didn’t look at Spike as she spoke. “I want to stake you, you know? But it feels wrong. To kill something that can’t fight back. It would be wrong, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes,” he cut into her brainstorming to add helpfully. “Evil, in fact. You’d be a very naughty Slayer.”

The Slayer stopped. “You’re annoying, though, so I might just stake you anyway.”

But he’d found a hole in her bravado now. Spike let a smile tug at his mouth. He was not going to die tonight.

“Can you prove you’re harmless?” the Slayer asked him, frowning. “How do I know you’re not faking it?”

“You saw the light, Slayer,” he said. “I’m no witch-bitch myself. Can’t make things sparkle. And believe me when I say I would just love to be poundin’ you right now.”

They stared at each other.

“With my fists,” Spike clarified. “I want to punch you. In the face. Although if you’re offerin’ other types of pounding--”

“Quit while you’re ahead.” The Slayer shook her head. “Okay, stand up and put your hands on your head, Spike.”

“You didn’t say ‘Simon says’,” he objected. “And why? Gonna make me do a dance?”

All it took was another look for him to begrudgingly do as the Slayer asked. Before surrendering, Spike brushed the grass stains off his trousers and threw his duster back on.

“You’re coming with me,” she said, pushing him in the direction of her home.

Spike raised an eyebrow. “Slayer?”

She marched forwards. “I can’t just let you run around freely. You’re a prisoner. Now, shut up and play nice.”


	4. In which there is bondage

“You know, Slayer,” Spike said conversationally. “If you wanted to tie me up so bad, all you had to do was ask nicely.”

As payment for his sparkling wit, Spike received nothing but a well-practised glower. Or he imagined he did, anyway. The Slayer was still behind him with her nimble little hands putting the finishing touches on the thick ropes that bound him to a chair in her dining room.

“I’m not afraid to gag you, Spike,” the Slayer warned him.

“Worried I’ll bite, pet?” Spike asked. “Relax. Poor Spike is a good dog now.”

The Slayer hadn’t wasted any time in-between begrudgingly dragging him into her little batcave (“Try anything funny, mister, and you’re dust.”) and whipping out a coil of rope from somewhere upstairs. He’d been just dying to ask her why exactly she kept rope so close to her bedroom, but Spike decided he’d been slapped around just enough for one night.

“That much remains to be seen, in fact,” said the Watcher. He sat at the opposite end of the dining table to the spot Spike had been pushed up against, sipping what smelled like Earl Grey. “Tell me again exactly what happened this evening, Buffy.”

The Slayer’s little posse had arrived one by one only a few minutes ago, wide eyed and eager to see the latest attraction in Slayerland: Spike himself. The witch girl, Red, was here; her eyes were fixed worriedly on Spike as if he were a particularly tricky sums problem. He supposed that was fair considering how often she’d been part of Spike’s own diabolical schemes. Thinking about it, Spike would have felt a lot better if more people regarded him as seriously. He was the Big Bad.

“I told you twice already, Giles,” the Slayer said, pacing like a caged panther now. “Bleach boy shows up, all lurky and creepy. Buffy is about to stake bleach boy. Bleach boy tries to fight back, and bam! Weird glowy light everywhere.” She bit her lip hard. “Spike said… well, he said he’s harmless. Something about a curse.”

“You mean he can’t hurt people?” asked Red.

“That’s what he says,” the Slayer said.

“You saw what happened, Slayer,” Spike said with a shrug, but nobody was listening.

They were all so busy grumbling and muttering and pondering that nobody was paying attention to him at all, in fact. Quietly, he strained his muscles, pushing against the ropes. They held firm. Of course, even if they’d come loose Spike probably wouldn’t have been able to take more than two steps without receiving a delightful dose of slayer fist, but curiosity dusted the pretty vampire.

The Watcher bristled. “It could be a trap.”

“Does it matter?” said the wanker, and for the first time Spike realised he was there. “I say we stake him anyway, curse or not.”

“Xander does have a point,” the Watcher agreed, taking another sip of tea. “That would seem the most reasonable course of action.”

Spike rolled his eyes. “I’m sittin’ right here, you know.”

He’d been stupid enough to let himself get into this situation in the first place, but Spike really had to kick himself for allowing this to happen. Maybe he would have been better off taking his chances running while he’d still had the chance. The Slayer would probably have caught up to him, but at least he wouldn’t have had to listen to Poofters United here babbling on about the hows and whys of staking him if he was nothing more than a big pile of dust.

“Trust me,” the Watcher said. “We’re all perfectly aware of that.”

“All I know is that he couldn’t hurt me,” the Slayer said, shaking her pretty blonde head. “And I don’t know… it feels wrong to hurt something that can’t fight back. I can’t do it.”

Spike made a kissy face. “Aww, Slayer. I’m touched.”

“It’s taken a special brand of pathetic to make me pity you this much,” she replied sweetly.

“Buffy,” the wanker began. “Are you forgetting something here? This is Spike. Spike is an evil vampire. Very, very evil. And killing evil vampires? That’s kind of your thing, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Thank you, wanker,” Spike said with a grateful nod. “At least someone here remembers I’m bad news.”

“So put a stake in him already,” the wanker finished.

“Likin’ that part less,” Spike said.

“I can’t just dust him, Xander,” the Slayer said, still prancing about the room stiffly. “As much as I’d like to, it would be wrong.”

“I believe the word I used earlier was ‘naughty’,” Spike helped.

“You can’t trust him, Buffy,” the Watcher said, draining his cup with a heavy sigh. “Spike is very dangerous.”

Spike beamed.

The Watcher began to clean his glasses with rhythmic precision. “He’s no Angelus, of course, but you saw the fair bit of trouble he caused when he was set loose on Sunnydale.”

Spike scowled.

“I never said I was going to trust him,” the Slayer argued. “I’m not letting him go. But he’s not going to dust, either.”

Who would have thought? The Slayer, his champion. Spike’s heart was practically all aflutter - or, it would have been if he had a working model.

“Then you’re going to let him stay here?” Red asked, her voice squeaky.

Spike couldn’t blame her.

“You’re gonna hold me prisoner here?” he asked, blinking.

“You’re going to install Captain Peroxide here as your latest piece of furniture?” the wanker cried out.

“Buffy,” said the Watcher. “Is that really an option? Keeping Spike here in your own house? With your mother here?”

“Is anyone else volunteering for Spike duty?” The Slayer pointed at Spike, and then at his ropes. “He’s not getting out any time soon. And he’s my responsibility. It’s me who failed at staking him, so I’ll pay the price.”

There was a moment of silence. Spike surveyed the room with an onlooker’s eyes, judging quietly. The wanker looked as frustrated as Spike felt, and somewhere along his narrow lines of thought he’d decided sending dirty looks at the poor prisoner was the only way to adequately vent his frustrations. The witch still looked wary, but her mouth was firmly closed. The Watcher’s glasses polishing had come to an abrupt halt.

And the Slayer herself stood tall. Well, as tall as you could get for someone so pocket-sized. Maybe he hated he-- no, he definitely hated her, but that strength was something Spike could appreciate. It was the same expression she’d often worn before kicking his pale arse in a brawl. Kind of hot… strictly in the way that a predator admired his prey, that was.

“Rightio, then,” Spike said, breaking the heavy air that had fallen across the dining room before his brain could go any further with that thought. “That’s sorted and dandy. The Slayer and I can be wacky housemates until she stakes me or I manage to escape. You can all toddle off back home now and gimme some peace.”

“I still say we should stake him,” the wanker grumbled, but he looked marginally less ready to commit murder now, which was progress.

There were quiet footsteps coming from the hallway. Joyce stood in the doorway a moment later, eyeing them all with a wrinkled brow. She looked tired, her noticed. A lot more tired than she’d looked during his charming field trip back to Sunnyhell post-Drusilla. Spike tried to suppress it, but his face fell a little in worry. Joyce was decent. If anyone in this messed up town should be a-okay, it was her.

“Mom,” the Slayer said quickly. “I didn’t know you’d be back from the gallery this soon.”

Joyce’s gaze fell on everyone present one at a time, including Spike. He flashed her a cheery grin in welcome as the others verbalised their hellos.

“Hello, Mrs Summers.”

“Hi, Buffy’s mom.”

“Good evening, Joyce.”

“You didn’t tell me your friends would be here, Buffy.” Joyce didn’t look angry, but she did look curious. “Is that… your friend Spike you have strapped to our chair?”

“‘lo, pet.” Spike nodded.

“He’s not my frien--,” the Slayer began, looking at Spike with distaste. “I have some things I need to tell you, mom.”

“It sure looks that way,” Joyce replied. “How about I get everyone some drinks?”

“Nah, Giles and the others were just leaving,” the Slayer said with a meaningful look.

“Buffy--,” the Watcher began, but she shook her head.

“Giles, I can handle this. We’ll talk tomorrow.” The Slayer shooed her gang of whitehats to her door. Ah, there was that domineering strength again he had been admiring not long ago. As much as he hated to admit it, it was still kinda turning him on. Er, in an enemy way.

After the Slayer closed the door behind her Scoobies, her eyes fell to both Spike and Joyce.

“Well, if you could just cut me loose now, I’ll be outta your hair nice and easy,” Spike said coolly. “I’ll just pop off nice and quiet and nobody will be none the wiser, eh?”

“Not a chance in hell, Spike,” replied the Slayer.

It had been worth a shot.

“Buffy?” Joyce spoke, her voice soft yet demanding. “Is there a particular reason your friend Spike is tied up like that?”

He really did like Joyce, Spike decided. Even with someone like the Slayer for a daughter, she was still calm and willing to try to understand all the weird crap the Slayer had to drag the poor woman into. She was a good mum to her girl, and that was something he could appreciate.

“It’s a long story,” the Slayer admitted.

Joyce nodded. “And as this is all taking place in my house, I’d like to hear it. Shall I get drinks first?”

Yes, Spike nodded. He liked Joyce a whole lot.

 

-

“So you’re telling me Spike can’t hurt anyone?”

“Not a fly, pet,” Spike answered.

Joyce had absorbed the whole tale well, he thought. Better than the Scoobies had, if Spike was pointing fingers.

“But he’s still a vampire?” the older woman asked.

Spike snorted. “Last time I checked.”

“And he’s still evil,” the Slayer said, glancing at him. “Don’t think about trusting him, Mom.”

“Gotta bit of a murky past,” Spike agreed. “And present.”

“So he’s not…” Joyce’s tone grew soft and careful. “Like... Angel?”

Honestly, it was sickening. Peaches had all these women - Darla, his Dru, and now the Slayer too - pining over him like he was something other than a self-absorbed, grouchy old git. What was it about the ponce that made women so whiny and heartbroken in his absence? Was it his nancy-boy hair gel? Was it his lifts (which his absolutely did wear, Spike insisted)? Joyce spoke as if she thought the Slayer would break upon just hearing the Great Poof’s name.

“No,” the Slayer said firmly. “Not like Angel.”

Luckily, that wasn’t his Slayer.

“Okay, then.” Joyce seemed to come to some sort of understanding, he thought. “I understand, Buffy.”

The Slayer tilted her head. “You do?”

“And honestly? I have to tell you that I’m proud of you,” Joyce said. “It would have been wrong to kill--”

“Dust,” the Slayer corrected. “He’s not a person.”

“It would have been wrong to kill Spike with his condition,” Joyce finished. “You did the right thing and I really am proud.”

The Slayer’s face softened. That was a face Spike didn’t see often. And while he would never say it out loud, it suited her features almost as much as her commanding face had. It was with a little bit of sick fascination that he was enthralled with it. It wasn’t a face meant for him, not ever. Not that he wanted it to be.

Joyce gave her daughter a smile. "If you're sure it's safe, I don't think keeping Spike here will be a problem. For a vampire, he comes across as remarkably well-mannered."

"That depends on who you ask," the Slayer mumbled, but her face was still light.

Spike's mouth twitched. "Thank you, pet."

“Now,” Joyce said, rising with grace. “Who’s hungry?”


	5. In which bodily fluids are discussed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really have no idea where I'm going with this, which is a little worrying. I started with a set beginning and end in mind - but I'm only now just realising that a whole lot of stuff has to happen in between. So this is very much a work in progress. But if you're reading this, thank you!

Showers always had made her feel better.

There was just something about the way the hot water would hit her body that made everything okay. There had to be some sense of normalcy in her life if she could stop for long enough to clean up. Maybe that was why she’d made it a habit to shower immediately on returning home from patrol every night -- well, that and there was usually a good chance she’d be covered in icky demon guts.

If Buffy closed her eyes long enough, she could forget for a while. She could almost forget about whatever world-ending crisis she had been dealing with that week. She could almost forget that there would probably be an even direr reason for the world to be ending the week after. She could almost forget exactly who she was: the Slayer, the chosen one, the girl whose luck in love had once resulted in her sending the love of her life to hell - and more recently, being used and dumped by Parker.

And if she tried really hard, she could almost forget--

“Oi, Slayer!”

\-- the bleach blond vamp currently chained up in her spare room.

Buffy didn’t grace him with a reply, instead running her hands carefully through her dripping hair as she finished rinsing out the last of the conditioner. Whatever he wanted could wait unless it was a matter of life and death. Though if it was a matter of life and death, finding a pile of dust in the place of her new prisoner would save her a lot of trouble in the long run. So she was going to finish washing herself.

“Slayer. Slaaaaayer. Sla-yer.”

Did Spike actively campaign to get punched in the face? Thinking about it, maybe he was, like, into that. Ew.

“Buffy?”

Huh. Had Spike ever used her real name before? The word sounded strangely foreign to her when it came lathered in his British accent and slow drawl.

Still, he was annoying. And Buffy knew for a he’d never whine so loudly if her mom hadn’t been at the gallery. Oh, no. To her, he was all charm and sensitivity. To Buffy, it was only thinly veiled innuendo and constant snark. If she was lucky, he would sometimes throw in a few death threats to shake things up.

With uncontained exasperation, Buffy stepped out of the shower. A moment of pure horror overcame her when she realised she’d forgotten to lay out some clothes for herself; luckily, there was a spare bathrobe within range for her to throw on her body. Good. There would be no flashing Spike today. Or, um, ever.

Covered up, Buffy marched forwards to the spare room like she’d been ordered to go on a suicide mission.

“You called?” she asked, poking her head through the door with a piercing glare exactly as hateful as he deserved.

Buffy paused.

Spike was lounging back on the spare bed, his torso ever so slightly propped against the headboard. Like last night, his hair had been doing that strange curly thing she couldn’t remember him wearing before, and their tussle had only messed it up more. It looked strange on him. Not bad strange, she supposed, at least for Spike. Just different.

She’d used the ropes from earlier to bind his hands above his head as tightly as she’d been able to manage, but Spike looked far too comfortable for someone tied up. Almost like it was a position he was used to -- and that was a line of thought she really did not want to go down.

“Slayer,” Spike said once more, only he wasn’t yelling it this time. “See something you like?”

He paused, taking her in. She pretended she didn’t notice the way his eyes trailed appreciately down her body, taking in the way the bathrobe left a lot of leg showing. She had to pretend really hard because ‘lust’ and ‘Spike’ were two words Buffy never wanted to think about in a consecutive order, and-- damn it. At least he didn’t know that anything like that had crossed her mind.

But the smirk on his face seemed to imply otherwise.

“I don’t have all day, Spike.” Buffy made sure to frown extra hard. “I have papers due in this week. So whatever you have to say? Say it fast.”

He wouldn’t, of course. He was predictably annoying like that.

Spike cocked his head. “I’m hungry.”

For a second, Buffy had wanted to throw something at him. He’d been yelling because he was hungry? She’d give him the leftovers from whatever she’d fix for lunch in an hour or two-- oh.

In some ways, Spike made it really easy to forget he was a vampire.

Sure, it was something she couldn’t ignore. It wasn’t something Spike was ashamed of, she knew. He brought it up often enough in their banter to know that for sure. Even if he hadn’t, Giles and Willow and Xander never seemed to forget it.

Plus, Buffy had seen him in game face. That surely should have been enough to stick with her.

He was a vampire all right, but there was something about him that clashed intrinsically with what Buffy had figured a vampire should be. Even with…

Even with Angel, there hadn’t been a moment she’d forgotten what he was. Angel was good. Angel was a vampire. Angel was a good vampire. The three things had blended together in Buffy’s mind without too much of a problem, post the initial giant freak out she’d had upon discovering his secret. The whole ‘tall, dark, and brooding’ thing Angel had going on just worked with his little vampire problem.

But Spike was strangely different. Spike, as he’d told her with a grin once, liked dog racing and Manchester United. Spike, for better or for worse, had a passion for living. The dark, stoic and serious image of a traditional vamp Buffy ashamedly carried around in her mind after being raised on one too many vampire flicks as a pre-teen simply… didn’t fit when it came to Spike.

“Oh,” Buffy said then, staring at him. “You want blood then.”

“Well, you could lemme starve,” Spike offered casually. “But wouldn’t that be going ‘gainst your brand new ‘protect poor baby Spike’ policy?”

Now that he mentioned feeding, something clicked. Spike could look as cool as he liked, lying on that bed, but there was something off about him. He wasn’t exactly a healthy looking colour ordinarily, but now his skin was paper white and the beginnings of dark bags were starting to hang under his eyes.

“Spike,” Buffy began. “How long has it been since you last ate?”

For a second he just looked at her. Then--

“Tried to snack on a couple of girls last night,” Spike said evenly.

A fresh wave of revulsion rose up within Buffy. “You’re disgusting, Spike.”

“Yeah, but I couldn’t,” he admitted. “Weird magic mumbo jumbo happened, like I said. So I haven’t eaten for a couple o’ days now.”

Well, if nothing else, it added credibility to his claim that he was harmless. None of the Scoobies could argue that he looked ill, and it was almost certainly the kind of ill look a vampire starting to become malnourished might get.

“Okay,” Buffy conceded. “I’ll swing by the butcher’s later and pick you up some pig’s blood.”

Suddenly, Spike sat up -- or as up as he could sit, what with all the rope.

“Pig’s blood?” he spat out, like Buffy had shoved something bitter down his throat with nothing but words. “No way. I’m not drinking that sludge. I’m a human-only type of vamp, Slayer.”

She shrugged. “Then you can starve.”

He looked like she’d just asked him to go dancing naked through the graveyards of Sunnydale. Except worse, because he’d probably enjoy that.

“You fight dirty, Buffy,” Spike grumbled.

She stopped, observing him. He’d used her name again, but by his lack of reaction the subtle shift didn’t seem to mean anything to him. She was probably just over thinking things again.

“But,” Spike said now, pushing lightly against his ropes. “I’ll go along with it if you do me one favour in return.”

“You do realise you’re in no position to argue, don’t you?” Buffy asked, but he acted as if she hadn’t spoken.

“Lemme pay one last visit to my crypt,” he pushed, his face softening - like he thought _that_ would sway her. “I just wanna pick some stuff up before you drag me back to our kinky bondage lair here, Slayer.”

Buffy spluttered. “This is not a kinky bondage lair! And I’m holding you captive. This isn’t some kind of holiday you can just saunter back and forth from.”

Spike rolled his eyes. “Slayer, show some decency. Aren’t you whitehats big on the whole ‘human rights’ crap?”

“You’re not human,” Buffy argued.

“Come on, now,” he said. “If you don’t let me change my clothes, these ones will get dirty. Neither of us want me to stink.”

“Vampires don’t sweat,” Buffy answered back automatically. “No bodily fluids.”

Her time with Angel had taught her something, at least. Enough to show Spike that he couldn’t fool her so easily.

Spike rolled his tongue over his teeth, raising an eyebrow. “Nah. We got some bodily fluids.”

Buffy just stared at him, bewildered. His implication didn’t sink in until he chanced a not-so-subtle glance at his crotch and leered.

“Oh, that is gross,” she squeaked. “You’re a pig.”

“Just saying, Slayer,” said Spike, his voice laced with promise of double meanings and sly undertones. “You don’t want me to get dirty, do you?”

Buffy froze. The way Spike was looking at her… well, it definitely was not the kind of look mortal enemies gave each other. It wasn’t the look reluctant housemates gave each other either. It was a different look altogether, and there had been only a few occasions she’d seen a man wear it for her before.

She really had to get out of that room.

“You know what?” Buffy interjected quickly. “Whatever. Pick up whatever you like, as long as you do it fast. I’ll chaperone you.” Before he could open his stupid pouty mouth, she continued. “Later.”

“Good,” Spike said, his expression losing a little bit of the intensity it had been carrying a few moments ago.

Did he know what he’d been doing to her? Was he doing it on purpose? Because if that was the case, she’d probably have to stake him. Harmless or not.

“Also, it’s not my crypt. Not exactly.” He resumed his lounging. “It’s Harmony’s. Slipped my mind.”

“Spike,” Buffy warned.

“Don’t worry your pretty head ‘bout it, Slayer,” Spike said. “She’ll be out, I reckon. Usually is.”

He didn’t look bothered in the slightest about that. Speaking of which...  
“Isn’t she your girlfriend?” Buffy said, unable to help herself. “Won’t she be, you know… concerned that you’re being held captive by the Slayer?”

“Hardly,” Spike snorted in response to the first question and looked thoughtful about the second. “And that’s doubtful. Might miss me in her bed, though.”

Was that all that they saw in each other then? Sex? It was one hundred levels of ick, but Buffy found herself a teensy tiny bit curious. How someone could manage to live with Harmony, never mind function as one of the parties in a relationship with her, was alien. It only made things weirder that Spike was the one dating her. Spike. He who was almost as equally obnoxious and annoying himself.

But if they worked through pure attraction, then maybe Buffy could understand. Harmony was pretty enough; she wore a lot of skimpy outfits, anyway. And Spike was…

She refused to think about Spike. That was not happening.

But if Spike was right, there probably wouldn’t be any dramatic rescue attempts from scorned lovers. That was of the good, she decided. Buffy really did have some papers to write.


	6. In which everything is just rosy

There was one thing Spike knew for sure: he was a sodding idiot.

He’d been flirting with the Slayer.

It had been funny at first. They’d been flirting since the day they met - not that Buffy would ever admit it. They’d scowled and kicked and cursed one another, sure. But they’d also taunted and smirked and quipped awful one liners while doing it. Spike wasn’t ashamed to admit that he’d enjoyed that. As enemies, they clashed in a way that he’d never really clashed with anyone before: messily, and violently, and yet oddly seamlessly. Each of them had know the exact buttons to press to make the other squirm; the exact way to pick apart their opponent with nothing but words and a cocky tone.

He’d call it a dance, but that was the poet in him talking.

But today had been different. Too different for his liking.

That morning, the Slayer had come flying into his remarkably comfortable cell intent on beating the whining out of him. Spike had been stewing in a mixture of boredom and hunger, and if she was going to chain up her own pet vampire then he was hoping the goodie two shoes within her would obligate the Slayer to listen to him. Humans rights again and all that. He’d never been too big on them himself.

But when Spike had laid eyes on her, he’d felt something within him die.

She was fucking gorgeous.

It wasn’t something he wanted to think. But Spike wasn’t going to lie to himself; that bullshit was reserved for prats like his grandsire. No, he felt whatever he felt and he always had. There was no point in beating around the bush.

So he let himself know what he knew. The sky was blue, Drusilla was the love of his unlife, and his taste in music was sublime.

And the Slayer was fucking gorgeous. Yeah, on some level, he’d always been attracted to her. That was obvious. With all that perfect shampoo-commercial blonde hair and that girly modern get up, Spike had never considered her his type. But she was hot and she knew how to get him real good. But she’d never been-- well, he’d never been tied to a bed, covered in her scent, while she stood before him in nothing but some skimpy bathrobe.

That was something that could change a man’s perspective, yeah.

But it was wrong. It couldn’t be anything but wrong.

Sure, it was all fine and dandy when he was just looking. A harmless little glance had never hurt nobody. Spike certainly wasn’t the first vampire to fantasize about a slayer. Or do more than fantasize, of which said slayer was living proof. Nothing wrong with a healthy bit of lust. Made things interesting, mostly.

The problem was that it had been stronger than that. Spike had felt it.

He’d wanted to touch her. He’d wanted to rip off his shackles, press her up against the doorframe, and rip open that tiny bathrobe. He’d wanted--

_You must learn to love another, and earn her love in return._

Not that. Never that. This whole sodding thing was ridiculous.

Spike growled. So, he was attracted to the Slayer. It wasn’t news. It barely deserved a post card. And when he got his mojo back and ripped out her throat, it wouldn’t even make for a page in the obituaries.

It didn’t mean a single thing. However much witchy crap was thrown at him, it would never mean anything at all. Things were exactly the same as they had been before. He certainly didn’t like the Slayer. Spike knew he hated her: what she was, what she did, how she tried. Even if his mind was slammed with thoughts of her body, it was all meaningless.

As long as he lived, he could never love her.

The thought alone made Spike’s face darken.

“What’s up with you?” asked the current object of his loathing. “You seem a tiny bit more likely to fly into a murderous rage than usual. Which is saying something, with your whole ‘harmless’ problem.”

Spike and the Slayer walked side by side on the pavement, though he suspected that was more so she could keep an eye on him than anything. Of course, the bitch had taken measures to make sure he would be a good little vampire. He figured that she’d brought him here at night just so Spike’s bound hands wouldn’t get quite so many strange looks in the street.

“Dunno,” he answered with quiet venom. “Maybe it’s the whole ‘prisoner’ thing that’s gettin’ to me. Funny, that.”

He saw the way confusion pooled into her stupidly wide hazel eyes all too well.

“You were fine this morning,” Buffy noted, not pausing in her stride.

If he’d looked at any other girl with as much primal viciousness as he was using right then, she’d have been scared out of her wits. But the Slayer didn’t even seem to notice. Or more likely, she it was because she couldn’t care less.

“Maybe it’s that disgusting pig shit you made me drink,” Spike said with a glare.

The Slayer was unamused. “Pig’s blood, actually. Even I wouldn’t make you drink that.”

Ha-bloody-ha. Wasn’t the girl just a regular comedian? He hated the way her pretty lips twitched at her own joke almost unnoticably like it had been humour for her alone. He hated it.

“Whatever, Slayer,” he said. “Harm’s crypt is this way. Come on.”

And though she’d made it clear that she was the one in charge of their little expedition, she seemed to let him take the lead. He’d put money on her fierce eyes staring daggers into his back though. Well, he might have if he’d had any money.

They arrived at the crypt to find: a) it was still standing, b) it was not on fire, and c) Harmony had not yet used Spike’s absence as an excuse to paint the outer walls a putrid pink. He was eternally grateful for all of the above. Spike didn’t know if he’d be able to stand whatever mocking comment Buffy would throw at him if she discovered he’d been living in Harm’s version of a Disney castle.

“I’ll just pop in,” he told her. “Grab my stuff. I won’t be long.”

“Do I really need to point out just how much that is not happening, Spike?” the Slayer said with a pointed eyebrow. “Besides, I don’t think you’re going to have much luck packing. You seem a little... tied up.”

“You considered changing careers from slayin’ to stand up, Slayer?” Spike said dryly.

“Have you considered not being a pathetic, bloodsucking excuse for evil?” she retorted.

He rolled his eyes, and held open the door for her. The Slayer’s eyes bore into his skull.

“Force of habit,” he grumbled upon her stare, and pushed past to enter first.

The crypt was almost as he’d left it. Discarded piles of Spike’s own clothing lay in clumps on the ground, making winding black trails from the entrance to the bed. Like he’d told the Slayer, he really would need to pack an extra shirt or two while he was here. But that wasn’t what he was looking for.

There is but one way to break your curse. You must learn to love another, and earn her love in return. Before the last petal on this rose falls, you must both love and be loved.

Upon initially waking up from the delightful visit Spike had received from the witch bitch, there had been no way in hell he’d take heed of anything she’d had to say. Not until he’d been turned into Cuddles the friendly vamp, that is. But not that he’d had a chance to think, he’d realised what he’d been missing. The sodding rose.

While there was no way Spike was gonna play the whole ‘breaking the curse’ thing by the witch’s slayer-loving book, maybe there would be some other way he could reverse the spell before he ran out of time. But to do that, he’d need--

“He loves me. He loves me not. He totally loves me. He loves me not.”

Because Spike had really needed something else to screw up his unlife. Had he done something wrong - well, wronger than usual? Maybe all those years of being an undead force of evil were finally catching up to him, karma wise.

“Great, she’s here,” Buffy groaned from behind him. “I guess you were wrong.”

At the Slayer’s whining, Harmony looked up from the bed she’d been sitting cross-legged on. Her gaze prickled at his skin like it was made from crosses.

“Harm,” Spike greeted.

“So he returns,” Harmony spoke, rising up from the bed with a wobbly flounce. “You didn’t even leave a note, blondie bear. I was-- behind you!”

Spike looked over his shoulder. Buffy looked back at him.

“Hello, Spike?” Harmony flailed, her arms in the air. “That’s the Slayer! Your mortal enemy! Shouldn’t you be, like, fighting to the death?”

“Yeah, blondie bear,” the Slayer said, daring to look amused. “Go ahead and bite me.”

His eyebrow twitched. “Harm--”

“Oh, no. I get it. I get it, Spike.” Harmony looked dangerous… or as dangerous as someone like Harmony could get, he supposed. “You’re sleeping with her, aren’t you? Okay, firstly: ew. She’s the Slayer and that’s just wrong. I’m not even going to start on the way your hands are all tied up. And secondly? Go get dusted, you cheating bastard! I’m leaving you!”

Spike tried to look at least a little bit upset by this news. “Alright, then.”

“Alright?” Harmony echoed. “Alright? No, it’s not alright! My therapist says the only way you’ll ever listen to me is if I stand up for myself. But honestly? I should have seen your betrayal coming a long time ago. It’s always’ the Slayer said this’ or ‘the Slayer could whip me harder than that, love’ with you! You’re obsessed, Spike, and this is the end.”

“Wow. I think I’m going to throw up,” said Buffy from the doorway.

Harmony was busying herself with scooping up all of his clothes from the bedroom floor, which she threw in his face with a squeak of satisfaction. As she stalked towards him, she brandished her hands like well-manicured daggers. If it wasn’t Harmony, he might have felt some kind of… well, anything.

“Just get out of my crypt,” Harmony huffed, arms crossed. “And don’t even think of ever coming back. Because I’ll just be, like, whatever. Ugh.” She made a face. “After that pretty flower you left for me, I thought we had something special.”

Yeah, right. And pigs could fly, vampires were champions of the just, and certain blonde slayers didn’t make Spike want to surgically remove his-- wait.

“Flower?” he asked, advancing. “You mean a rose?”

“Uh, yeah, stupid,” Harmony replied. “You should know that if you’re the one who left it for me. Unless I have a secret admirer.”

Spike’s mind flashed back to the start of this train wreck of an encounter. He loves me, he (absolutely) loves me not.

“Gimme the rose,” he demanded, frantic. “And you were playin’ that game where you pick off the petals?”

“It’s my rose,” Harmony said with a pout, but he didn’t miss the way her eyes flashed back to the bed behind her. “Besides, like it cost you anything.”

“It might have,” he argued. And it really had, Spike thought.

“You don’t even have money,” Harmony said, hissing.

But Spike pushed past her, making a beeline for the bed. Upon it sat the single rose. The last time he’d laid eyes on it, there had been a whole lot more petals. He scowled at Harmony with promised intent.

“You know what?” Harmony yelled. “Whatever. Just take my stupid flower and all of your crap and get out. You better be gone by the time I get back, or… I’ll do something really evil. Hmph.”

And with that stirring speech, she spun on her heel and waltzed into the night. Relief followed briefly; it came to a screeching halt as felt the Slayer’s presence beside him.

“Now I feel ill,” Buffy said, scrunching up her nose. “I really should have staked her while I had the chance, but I’m all queasy.”

He watched her out of the corner of his eye. The way she scrunched up her tiny nose, leaving soft ripples over her usually smooth face… was definitely not adorable in any way, shape, or form. Spike felt a fresh wave of disgust roll over him just for thinking about it.

“You’re not the only one, Slayer,” he replied.

“I can’t believe she thought we were…” the Slayer stopped herself. “Ick. Wrong. Very wrong.”

Yes, that’s what he’d been telling himself. For once in his life, it would do Spike some good to listen to the Slayer. And if that wasn’t the most terrifying truth to come out of this whole curse bullshit, Spike didn’t know what was.

“Bloody embarrassing,” he agreed. “Care to throw this rose in with the rest of the luggage?”

“A flower,” Buffy said. “You consider a flower part of your ‘essential supplies’?”

“Don’t underestimate floral arrangement, Slayer,” Spike said with a shrug.

He certainly wasn’t about to go telling anyone his true reasons. It would lead to a lot of awkward questions, and no real solutions. Nobody in the Slayer’s little gang wanted Spike to get his bite back.

Buffy shot him a look. “Did anyone ever tell you how freaky you are?”

“On occasion.”

She turned her back to him as she bent over to reluctantly scoop up some of his old clothes. Even after everything he’d told himself, Spike couldn’t help but admire the view just a little.


	7. In which plans are made

I appreciate the comments and kudos, so thank you! I have a clear idea of where I'm going with this now, so we should be on the fast track to Spuffy goodness. :)

* * *

 

This whole situation was getting too weird.

And coming from her, Buffy knew that was something. She’d really believed that her fill of weird had just about been filled up over the years; being the chosen one tended to do that to a girl. And just when she’d been starting to think that nothing could freak her out anymore, she had to go and chain up William the Bloody in her house.

“It’s really freaking me out, Will,” Buffy told Willow that night from the safety of her bedroom, pressing the phone against her ear. “Big time.”

“Well, yeah,” her friend conceded. “Having a big bad vampire guy living with you probably tends to do that. I mean, you and Angel slept-- uh, slept in the same place together once or twice, but that’s probably totally different. I mean, it’s Spike, right?”

“Yeah,” Buffy said. “But not in the way you’d think.”

“Huh?”

A hoot of laughter drifted up from downstairs.

“You hear that?” Buffy held the phone out. “That’s Spike and my mom. Laughing. Together. Like, in a total bonding way.”

“That is creepy,” Willow replied. “What are they doing?”

“Watching Passions together,” Buffy said with a frown. “That soap opera my mom likes. And they’re both enjoying it.”

Then Willow made a sound Buffy guessed was some kind of hybrid between a giggle and a gasp.

“Spike likes Passions?”

Buffy shrugged. “Apparently.”

“But the only people who watch that show are middle aged women,” Willow pointed out, confused as she was amused.

“And Giles,” Buffy amended.

“What, really?”

“Yeah,” Buffy ground out. “But try telling Spike that.”

More laughing from downstairs. Buffy made a face.

“You must really have your hands full,” Willow said. There was a hint of wistfulness under her light tone, Buffy thought. “So I guess that means you won’t be coming back to the dorm for a while yet, huh?”

Oh, Willow.

“I’m sorry, Will,” Buffy said. “I can’t leave my mom looking after the bleached pest all by herself. And I’d bring him with us, but I’m pretty sure people would be pretty wigged to find out we’d chained up some guy in our room. Plus, you totally don’t want Spike there. He’s annoying.”

“No, really, it’s all super duper,” Willow breezed, and Buffy had to hand it to her -- her friend’s voice only choked a little. “I mean, I’m getting along fine. In between the bouts of crying and stuff -- but, oh, you don’t need to worry about that. Or me. I’m just…” she paused. “It’s Oz, you know?”

Something in Buffy twisted. It was wrong of her to leave Willow alone after the love of her life had only just recently left her. It really was. But wouldn’t it be worse to leave someone like Spike unattended? Wouldn’t it be more dangerous?

Buffy sighed. Nothing ever could be easy.

“Once I get back, we’ll have a total girls’ night,” she promised. “And all the chocolate is on me, okay?”

It still wouldn’t make it right, but maybe it would make it less wrong.

“Oh, okay. That sounds nice,” Willow said flatly. There was a moment’s silence, like she was hesitating. “Listen. There’s a party tomorrow night, and I was wondering… did you want to go?”

Buffy blinked. “A party?”

“Yeah, a party. You know: music, dancing, a bunch of people doing… people-y things. I think you’ve heard of them.”

“I know what a party is,” Buffy said. “I just didn’t think you’d want to go. You know. Because of...”

Because of Oz. Willow certainly hadn’t been in a partying mood recently. And even as she was suggesting the idea, she didn’t seem so super enthused herself.

“I… I think a party would perk me up a little,” Willow spoke after a while. “And I’d like that. To be perked up, I mean. If you were coming too.”

Willow still didn’t sound so sure of that herself, but a measly little party was the least Buffy owed her.

“I’ll go wherever you like,” Buffy said, as cheerfully as she could. “If you’ll think it’ll help. Mom will look after Spike. I’m really sorry that I have to be away so much.”

“You bet,” Willow agreed, though it was without much heart. “We’ll go tomorrow then. It’ll be good for you… uh, for both of us.”

“Sure,” Buffy conceded. “Any reason in particular that brought this on?”

“Reason?” Willow said a little too quickly. “Uh, no. No reason. No reason at all. Nope. In fact, you could say I’m unreasonable. Hah. You get it?” She came up for air. “So, um, are you interested in anyone?”

“...Will?”

“I’m just curious,” Willow rolled on. “It’s not like anyone asked me to ask you. Especially not anyone you know. That would be stupid. And totally uncool. Totally uncool. So, that is not a thing that is happening. And I’m babbling now. Huh. That’s weird. Do you think I’m talking too much? I’ll just shut up now.”

“Is something wrong?” Buffy asked.

“No,” Willow said, slowing down enough for Buffy to understand her. “Nothing is wrong. Nothing at all.”

Willow hadn’t rambled so nervously to Buffy since they’d been strangers. Something was wrong. There was no doubt about it. The stress of being dumped was obviously working for Willow in strange ways.

Before Buffy could interject, Willow not-so-smoothly changed the subject. “But more importantly, what are you going to do about Spike?”

“Spike? What about him?”

Willow hummed. “Well, he can’t stay with you and your mom forever, right? Are you just going to let him go?”

Buffy had thought about this before, of course, but she hadn’t reached any kind of consensus. She’d check the library or ask Giles, but she was pretty sure nobody had written a book entitled ‘So Your Neutered Vampire Is Living With You And Bonding With Your Mom And Giving You Inappropriate Looks And Even More Inappropriate Thoughts Which Is Twenty Levels Of Gross, Plus Now You Have No Idea What To Do Because Your Life Is A Cosmic Joke’. Though if they had, they’d probably be one messed up author.

“Honestly? I have no idea,” Buffy confessed. “There’s not really a set rulebook for this type of thing.”

“I hear you,” Willow agreed. “You let Spike go and there’s no telling what he could do. If he finds some way to get that spell undone, then William the Bloody will be back in Sunnydale. That would definitely be not of the good.”

Buffy bit her lip. “You think he could do that?”

It was times like this that Buffy remembered just how much effort Willow put into the whole witch thing. Buffy had just woken up one day with kickass superpowers. Willow had to study dusty old books for hours at a time to get to where she was.

“Sure he could,” Willow told her. “I mean, there’s definitely a chance. It depends how strong this witch who cast the spell in the first place is.”

“He won’t talk about her much,” Buffy admitted. “I think he’s embarrassed.”

“Or hiding something,” Willow pointed out. “Be careful, okay? If Spike got loose, he could always kidnap another witch to perform a reversal spell for him. He’s done it before, remember?”

And Buffy did remember. It seemed like a long time ago, now she was listening to the sounds of Spike chatting idly with her mom downstairs. But it really hadn’t been. The subtle shaking of Willow’s voice proved that.

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” Buffy swore in the most comforting voice she could muster. “Two eyes, in fact. Until I figure out what to do with him.”

“Okie dokie,” Willow said, yawning. “I’m going to go try get some sleep, okay? I’ll see you in Psych class tomorrow.”

Buffy said her goodbyes and hung up, letting an unsteady feeling of unease creeping over her. Spike couldn’t stay here as a prisoner forever. But what other choice was there?

-

Maybe parties were more trouble than they were worth.

Buffy had already had her hands full lately with slaying and training and one certain leather-clad blond that had a name that rhymed with ‘bike’. Choosing an outfit for tonight only added icing to the cake. If it wasn’t for Willow, Buffy and her giant discarded pile of outfits would have stayed home.

Though that, as of late, tended to come with its own vampire-shaped problems.

But that wasn’t something Buffy was going to think about tonight. Tonight was strictly Willow central. Her friend needed her and she wasn’t about to let her down. After all, Willow had been there for Buffy after Angel left. Willow had held Buffy in her arms as she cried, and listened to all of her post-breakup sobbing with a comforting face. It was only right that Buffy return the favour now.

If only she could find the right outfit.

Absentmindedly, she wondered if Riley would be there. There was no denying the man was pretty hot, in a muscular, clean-cut kind of way. And they’d talked a few times. That was something, wasn’t it?

Find someone normal, Angel had said. Well, Buffy would show him. She’d find someone perfectly normal and ordinary, and then maybe Angel would realise what he’d missed out on. Except-- that had been what he’d wanted, wasn’t it? So he’d probably just be happy for her.

It was infuriating. But Riley was still pretty cute. Even if her heart still kind of hurt just a little, Buffy could work with cute. And after Parker, Buffy definitely needed a better experience to overwrite that one. It still made her shudder to think about.

Maybe wearing something green would go well. In any case, it would bring out her eyes. But green wasn’t really in right now. So maybe something pastel pink would go better in the end? God, this was hard.

“Going somewhere, honey?”

Her mom peered through the door, taking in Buffy and her apocalyptically-scaled wardrobe malfunction.

“Yeah.” Buffy held up a long-sleeved top with a low neckline to her reflection, her forehead crinkled. “A party. Willow wants me to go.”

“A party?” her mom asked. “Buffy--”

“I’ll stay safe, mom,” Buffy promised. “It’ll probably be really tame anyway. You know Willow. She’s a stickler for the rules.”

“Buffy--”

“I’ll be back early, anyhow,” Buffy continued. “I’m only really going because it’s part of ‘Operation: Cheer Up Willow’. She’s been pretty down since the break-up.”

“It’s not that,” Buffy’s mom said with a shake of her head. “I know that you’ll-- well, you’re an adult now. I’m sure if you were living on campus still you’d be doing this type of thing a lot more often.”

Buffy paused, dropping the garment she’d been trying out. “What is it?”

“I need to go out tonight,” her mom spoke. “We’re having a late evening exhibition at the gallery, and I really do need to be there. I’m sorry, honey.”

A sinking feeling filled Buffy once more.

“No, you should definitely go,” Buffy insisted. “It’s important to you. Spike is my problem. It’s just that…” She sighed. “Willow is going to be so disappointed. I’ve let her down enough.”

She really was a bad friend. Willow had wanted one small thing from her, and Buffy couldn’t even give that.

“Oh, Buffy.” Her mom shook her head. “Can’t we just leave Spike on his own for a night? He’s been awfully mature about this whole thing so far.”

If she wasn’t so conflicted, Buffy might have laughed. ‘Mature’ and ‘Spike’ were two words that absolutely did not belong in one sentence together. They didn’t even belong in the same paragraph.

“He’s dangerous,” Buffy said, serious. “I know he acts all Mr Sensitive around you, but he’s a cold-blooded killer.”

“I think you’re being a little too hard on him, Buffy,” her mom said with a small frown. “Spike has been through a lot.”

“Mom,” Buffy pushed.

“I know how to handle him, Buffy,” said her mom. “But try to think about his perspective. He hasn’t tried to escape once.”

Yeah, Buffy thought. Because he knows his ass would be dusted so hard the moment he even considers running. But for whatever inexplicable reason, her mom wasn’t going to see it that way any time soon. Stupid Spike and his stupid British charm.

“I still can’t leave him on his own.” Buffy sighed. “I can’t take that risk. It would be selfish.”

And yet ditching Willow would be selfish too. She just couldn’t win.

“Then why don’t you take Spike with you?”

“What?”

Downstairs, someone with vampiric hearing choked on his cup of microwaved blood. “What?”


	8. In which there is a field trip

“You’ll stay beside me at all times.”

“Right.”

“I mean it, Spike. Wander off for a single second, and I’ll treat it like an escape attempt. You’ll be a big pile of dust faster than you can say ‘bugger’.”

“You sure, Slayer? I can say bugger pretty fast.”

Buffy’s eyes narrowed as she eyed the grinning vamp. For someone tied tightly to a dining room chair, Spike looked far too cheerful.

“This was a horrible idea,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m going to regret this so hard. Wait and see.”

She’d nearly toppled over after her mom had suggested taking Spike with her to the party, and her reaction honestly hadn’t grown much milder with time. There was no way this possibly couldn’t go wrong. She’d be practically handing Spike the opportunity he needed to do… something evil, probably. He’d find a way.

Buffy had even thought about calling in a babysitter for him, but the pool of possible candidates was limited. With the baby in question being an actual vampire, her choices were confined almost entirely to the Scoobies. Willow was out for obvious reasons. And she’d called both Xander and Giles multiple times only to be put through to voicemail. Options were limited.

But he still couldn’t hurt anyone. A part of her that recognised that wanted to shrug, let go of all her worries and ask ‘how bad could he be?’; the rest of her knew with absolute certainty that if something could go wrong in the life of a Slayer, it would. Though maybe it was just Buffy?

Considering the fates of both Kendra and Faith, maybe not. Such was the life of the chosen one. 

So by all rights, considering taking Spike with her should be something Buffy rejected outright. But she was needed. Willow needed her. And right now, being Willow’s friend seemed a lot more important than being the Slayer. 

It’s not like the world was ending or anything, right?

“Don’t make a fuss, Slayer,” Spike said, interrupting her descent into madness. “It’s not like I haven’t proved I can be a good boy on demand now. Didn’t cause you any trouble when we went on our little field trip to Harm’s crypt, did I?” 

Buffy eyed him carefully. “Your hands were tied then. Literally. And I can hardly do that tonight, since we’re going to be around… people.” 

“Worried they’ll think you’re into something kinky, Slayer?” Spike grinned the type of grin that made her want to douse him in a litre of holy water. “That might not be such a bad thing. Liven things up, yeah?”

Only Spike could be so shamefully shameless.

“How about no?” Buffy replied sweetly. Her eyes fell to his restraints. “But you better keep your word, Spike. This isn’t some joke.”

“Right you are, pet,” Spike said, smug as ever. “I’ll be on my best behaviour.”

That wasn’t encouraging. 

When she cut him free, he was up and out of his chair before Buffy could think better of the whole plan in the first place. Great. Everything was just great.

“So, there’s gonna be something to drink at this party of yours?” Spike asked hopefully.

Buffy groaned.

Somehow she managed to get the two of them out of the house without a single case of attempted vampicide. They took a cab ride to campus. Naturally, Spike couldn’t keep quiet for more than five seconds at a time, providing a completely unwanted and unneeded running commentary on everything they passed on the way.

Buffy spotted Willow waiting for her by the doors of Lowell House, and the redhead waved her over with a small smile. Willow looked better, Buffy noticed. Not regular-Willow better, but better than just-been-abandoned-by-my-werewolf-boyfriend Willow. Right now, that was saying something. 

“Buffy,” Willow said warmly, her eyes warm -- and then wide as they shot past Buffy to the vamp behind her. “And Spike, apparently. Walking around. And without his shackles. That’s… huh. I’m kinda confused here. Also slightly alarmed.”

“Sorry,” Buffy replied, face twisted. “I had to bring him. Mom was out, and I couldn’t just leave him all alone.” She looked as apologetic as she could. “You’re not mad?”

“Not mad,” Willow promised. “Just a bit freaked out.”

“I’m hurt, Red,” Spike drawled, hand on his heart. “You wound me.”

Willow shook her head. “Sorry. It’s just the whole ‘evil vampire’ thing that I find kind of strange.”

“You don’t have to worry about the evil part ‘till I undo this bloody spell,” Spike said in a way that he probably thought was reassuring. “Then you’ll be a right tasty meal. But for now, I’ll play along.” 

“Er, right.” Willow swallowed. “Is he going to be okay here, Buffy?”

Now, that was the million dollar question. Buffy tried to repress as much of her doubt as possible. Spike was not going to ruin her girl time with Willow.

“He’s going to be more than okay, or he’s going to be dust,” Buffy said, with a warning glare at Spike.

“Oh, Slayer,” Spike replied with a loving sigh. “Quit your sweet talk before I start blushin’.”

Buffy watched Willow carefully as they entered the party. She seemed distracted; her eyes flitted about from person to person carefully and quickly, scanning the crowd. 

“Are you looking for someone?” Buffy asked her.

“What? No.” Willow laughed just a little too loudly. “No. No, no. I’m not. Just looking with my eyes at things. As people do.” 

She was panicked in the way Willow only panicked when she was lying, but Buffy didn’t call her out on it. Maybe it was an Oz thing. When Angel had left, Buffy remembered seeing him everywhere - or at least expecting to.

“Hey, Red,” Spike spoke up. He’d been trailing along from behind. “Some big prat over there is waving you over. Want me to go rough him up a little?”

Buffy didn’t even stop to turn and see who Willow’s mysterious guy was. “What? Spike, there will be absolutely no roughing anybody up. Besides, you can’t even hurt anyone.”

“Oh,” he said, sadness washing over his face. “Slipped my mind, that did.” 

“Why would you offer to beat anyone up for Will anyway?” she asked, curiously.

Spike shrugged. “Itchin’ for a fight, Slayer. Sittin’ around playing house-vamp is cushy and all, but I’d kill for a good brawl.”

“I can always punch you in the face a few times, if that’ll help,” Buffy offered generously. 

“Call me loony, but I’ll pass,” Spike grumbled. “Where’s Red gotten herself to?”

In a haze, Buffy realised he was right. While she’d been chatting with -- no, putting Spike in his place, Willow had disappeared. Guilt clenched her insides. Bad, bad Buffy. She couldn’t even take her mind off slaying and looking after stupid vampires for two minutes to make sure her friend had a good time. 

“This is all your fault,” Buffy informed Spike coldly as she pulled him around the room, searching for the missing witch. 

“My fault,” Spike echoed, scowling. “How the bugger d’you figure that?”

“You made me mad and hogged all of my attention,” Buffy argued, but the words sounded stupid even as she spoke them. “Tonight was supposed to be about Willow.”

Something unrecognisable flashed over Spike’s face. “Somebody broke Red’s heart, yeah?”

Buffy frowned. “How did you know that? Have you been listening in on my calls?”

Spike rolled his eyes. “Please, Slayer. You’re not half as interesting as you think you are. I just know a broken heart when I see one, that’s all.” 

Buffy’s mind swam with memories of his little visit last year, all drunk and loud and quiet. He’d certainly looked broken then, she supposed. A lot like Willow did now. But it hadn’t been the same. Willow and Oz had been in love. Really and truly in love. And Spike…

Demons couldn’t love. Maybe he’d had some twisted obsession with Drusilla; Buffy had to admit that he’d felt something, at least. One hundred years by the same woman’s side had to mean something. But anything more was impossible. You couldn’t love without a soul. Hadn’t Angel been proof enough of that?

“No, Spike,” Buffy told him, suddenly reserved. “I don’t think you do.”

Whatever sincerity had been on his face was torn away in an instant, and something in Buffy simultaneously mourned it and felt glee. She pushed the former as far back in her mind as was possible, and focused on finding her friend.

“Buffy?”

Over the pulsating music, she heard her name. Keeping tabs on her vampire, she spun on the spot in the direction of the voice.  
“Oh,” Buffy said softly. “Riley.” 

The man himself stood before her, slouching a little awkwardly. His eyes lit up as they found her own -- but as Willow’s had minutes before, grew concerned as they spotted Spike.

“I hoped you might-- uh, I mean, it’s nice seeing you,” Riley began with a grin too large for his face. “Very nice. Would you like some cheese?”

Frantically, Riley snatched up a single cheese-on-a-stick from a nearby table and waved it wildly in Buffy’s face.

It was kind of cute, Buffy thought. A muffled tittering from behind her indicated Spike had a different opinion entirely. The sound didn’t escape Riley’s notice.

“Oh,” Riley spoke, a flicker of concern passing over his face. “Is this a friend of yours?”

“No!” Buffy interjected quickly, just as Spike replied with an amused yes.

She glared at the vampire for what felt like the millionth time that night.

“No,” Buffy clarified. “He’s not a friend. He’s just…”

“Her date,” Spike declared, throwing an arm around her shoulder with an ease that scared her. 

Buffy stiffened. 

Riley’s face was an open book. Emotions flitted across his face before Buffy could stop them: shock, annoyance, disbelief. She’d never wanted to kick Spike more in her life.

“He is not my date,” Buffy ground out, teeth clenched. 

From her side, Spike gasped with an embarrassing amount of melodrama. “Don’t be cruel, love.”

“I’m not talking to you,” she snapped, moving out from under his arm. She pretended she didn’t notice the way her body cried out at the loss of contact -- boy, she must be getting desperate. She looked directly at Riley. “He’s not my date. He’s not even my friend. He’s just, uh, a family friend from out of town.”

“Oh,” Riley said blankly. 

Buffy felt Spike’s gaze on her as his eyes darted calculatingly between Riley and herself. 

“Right, then,” Spike said. “Since I’m not here as your date, you won’t mind if I step out and leave you two alone for a while.”

God, he was the single most frustrating creature alive on the planet.

“No,” Buffy ordered. “You’ll stay here where I can see you.” She felt the question in Riley’s demeanor. “It’s very easy to get lost in a place like this. Plus, it’s starting to get a little dusty in here. I know how bad your allergies are, Spike.”

Spike scoffed, but he shut up.

Riley coughed loudly. “Uh, you know what? Maybe I should just leave you two alone.”

“No, wait!” Buffy moved forwards, touching him lightly on the arm. “It was good to see you here, Riley.”

His expression softened a little. “You too, Buffy. And meeting your… family friend--”

“Spike,” the vampire butted in, flashing an unfriendly smile.

Riley, to his credit, didn’t bolt. “Uh, meeting Spike was interesting. Very interesting. So, um, I’ll see you in class soon. Oh, and your friend Willow spoke to me. She said she was tired and heading home.”

He slipped back into the nameless sea of faces that made up the crowd. Buffy resisted the urge to sink to the floor right then and there.

“You!” she yelled, turning to Spike with a fierce glower. “You ruined everything!”

“What?” Spike raised an eyebrow. “Because you were having such a magic moment with Captain Cardboard back there?” 

“Shut up,” she demanded, even as she asked answers from him. “Why do you have to ruin everything?”

“Please, Slayer,” Spike said, sneering. “That prat was obviously just dying to give you a good shag. If you want his bumbling body so badly, all you’ll have to do is flutter your pretty little eyelashes at him the next time you bump into each other.”

Buffy’s words died in her throat. “Really?”

Spike looked as if he was mocking her, but then he always did. “Really.”

For a moment, Buffy stood still, contemplating him. Spike stared straight back.

“Come on,” she said finally, the anger drained from her voice now. “Willow’s not here. We may as well go home.”


	9. In which the game begins

Spike let the Slayer drag him along the empty streets by the arm. Her fingers were digging into the cool leather of his duster -- something he rightfully would have made a point to complain about if the Slayer didn’t look so bloody murderous. 

It was cold that night, but the Slayer never once shivered. Spike wasn’t surprised. Temperature should have affected her like any other human, but Buffy Summers was made of stronger stuff than most. Even without all of her wacky Slayer mojo, he had a feeling she’d still be just a tiny bit terrifying.

The night had been interesting, all things said and done. Spike wasn’t about to spend the rest of his unlife trailing around after the Slayer, but it had been marginally more interesting than watching repeats on the telly some more. He’d at least got a kick out of messing with the Slayer’s new boy-toy. 

But he was running out of time.

Instinctively, Spike’s hands drifted down to trace the faint bulge in the left pocket of his duster. He’d taken to carrying the rose with him; if something happened to it, he had a rather distinctive idea of just how much exactly he would be screwed. Not that he wasn’t already. And not the good kind of screwed, for reference.

Even in the space of a day, the rose had already lost more than a large handful of petals. Spike had enough time to watch frustratedly as petal and petal fell through the day, disappearing in a thin blue haze as they reached the ground. At this rate, he’d be stuck as he was forever. They may as well just stake him now.

He was getting desperate.

There had to be something he could do. But what choices did he have? With the Slayer as his jailor, there was no chance in hell of escape. The only people who could help him were the Watcher or the witch, and there was no way either of them were going to endorse Spike getting his fangs back. He could lie, he supposed - but then he’d always been a shit actor. 

Spike sighed.

There’s always one solution, a voice in the back of his head whispered like the traitor it was. The witch bitch made it nice and clear. All you have to do is get the Slayer making those big, lovesick puppy eyes at you. 

It had been the part Spike had been trying not to think about. It was wrong. The very idea of it was unnatural to him still, but the voice wouldn’t stop its eternal yapping. The thoughts swirled and swirled around his head until he felt sick.

Maybe it wouldn’t even be too hard. He hated himself for even considering it, but Spike had seen the way she’d eyed him the other day after her shower: all wide eyes and stubborn denial. There had been something there in the air between them. He made her all hot, and while she’d never admit it, that was something he could use.

She still hated him, of course. But wasn’t that just another form of great passion?

And Spike knew how seduction worked. Been good at it, even. He’d picked up more pretty girls than he could ever count back in the day, nearly all of them as presents for his Dru. He could be charming. He could be compelling. And he knew the Slayer a lot better than she’d ever like to think he did. He could be exactly what she wanted.

Even thinking about it felt like a betrayal to Dru. Had she really seen this coming? Maybe that’s why she’d left in him the first place. In which case, Spike had to say that he really would have appreciated a warning about the entire bloody curse thing. Honestly. You’d one hundred plus years would have earned a heads up.

But Dru had left him alone. And there was nobody to fight Spike’s corner but himself.

Spike would live forever off sewer rat blood before he could love the Slayer in return. He was a one-woman vamp - and that slot had been taken over a century ago, whatever supposed infidelities the woman in question muttered and whispered to herself in the dark about. But maybe fulfilling half of the bargain would be enough. Whatever happened, it had to be a lot better plan than cosying it up aimlessly for days on end. That was all but guaranteed. 

To hell with everything, then. He was going to seduce the Slayer.

The declaration felt like it should be accompanied by some badass background music (or maybe a sad violin?) and maybe a spotlight, but the world continued rolling. The Slayer was still dragging him forwards by the arm, like she didn’t even realise she was still holding him. He might have recoiled at the idea of that a day ago, but it boded well with Spike’s new master plan in mind.

As she navigated them across the paved streets, Spike figured this was as good a time as any to kick off Operation: Seduce the Slayer.

“Buffy.” Spike drawled her name in that voice chits swooned over. Low and raw, with each syllable stretched out as long as he could hold it.

He waited for her reaction, but it was like he’d never spoken.

“Buffy,” he said again, a tad more impatiently this time. He was on a time limit here, after all.

The Slayer didn’t stop or turn to look at him. She just kept on walking.

“What?” she said finally, her voice cold. “Did you figure out some other way to ruin my night?”

Oh, bloody hell. Ruin her night? Her night? Like he was thrilled at the prospect of being her pet poodle to tow around and show off to all her friends. Like he’d asked for this. Like he was enjoying it. Like he was--

Like he was trying to get on the Slayer’s good side. Right then.

If he was going to go ahead with this ridiculous plan, then he was going to do it all right and proper. That meant figuring out a way to stop the Slayer eyeing him up like she was going to skin him alive, and figuring out a way to make her eye him up like she was going to do certain other things to his skin. And unfortunately, that probably involved a certain amount of making nice.

If anyone saw him now, he’d be the laughing stock of the underworld for decades.

“Yeah,” Spike said slowly, almost biting his tongue to refrain from snapping. “About that, Slayer.”

Buffy finally caught his eye. “Got something snarky you’d like to share?”

He shook his head, swallowing his pride. “I just wanted to say…” 

Spike could do this. It wasn’t like he was being sincere. This was about survival.

“...I’m sorry,” he finished, trying not to twist his face as he forced the words out. They left an unpleasant taste in his mouth, like blood gone bad. “Shouldn’t have messed with Captain Cardboard.”

He hadn’t known what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t for Buffy’s eyes to narrow even tighter.

“What’s your game here, Spike?” she asked, searching his face.

A bloody good question. He wasn’t entirely sure himself, if he was being honest. 

“Now, now,” he told her with a practised smirk. “Can’t just tell you. That’d ruin the ending.”  
“Yeah?” the Slayer asked. “Well, let me give you a spoiler: it ends with me dusting you.”

Ah, but she wouldn’t. She’d made that all too clear. It went against her goodie-goodie philosophy - not that he was complaining. 

“Whatever, Slayer,” Spike said. “You don’t have to believe me. But when I say somethin’, I mean it. And I’m sorry.” 

And he did suppose it was at least a little true. Again, he was a shit liar. It just wasn’t the truth in the way she would be thinking: he wasn’t even remotely sorry about Captain Cardboard, the ponce, but he was sorry that the Slayer had ended up so pissed off.

Buffy’s hand on his arm tightened for just a moment until her eyes dropped to where her flesh met his leather. A small flush passed over her face, nearly too quickly for him to see in the darkness, but he caught it regardless. In an instant he was released from her grasp, but Spike fell into step beside her all the same. 

“Okay,” Buffy said, just a little quieter. “Let’s go home.”

With that, she continued marching off at the pace of a bullet train. Spike took a second to simply watch her, his face uncharacteristically blank while her back was turned. Perhaps this wouldn’t be as easy as he’d been bargaining? It was tricky to figure out what was going on in her pretty little head sometimes. 

But a man had to try. Well, he did if said man wanted to remain that way as opposed to being stuck as the Slayer’s neutered lapdog. 

So he followed her.

They’d been walking for another ten minutes or so when the Slayer stopped again. Her entire body froze completely, muscles stiffening like somebody had poured a bucket of ice down her pretty low-cut top. Speaking of which, if he angled himself just right, he could almost see down  
int--

“Spike,” the Slayer cut in. “There’s something down that alley. Something bad.”

“Slayer-senses all a’tingle, yeah?” he asked. “You sure it’s not just me you’re sensing? Big bad here, in case you’d forgotten.”

As if that was ridiculous, Buffy merely gave him a look. Well then. He’d make her regret not taking him seriously when this spell was over.

“Something bad,” she repeated, though mostly to herself. “Spike, wait here.”

“Like hell, Slayer,” he retorted. And he was all ready to outline to Buffy exactly why she couldn’t tell him to stay like some kind of dog when she shrugged and crept forwards.

The street they’d been walking through had been all but abandoned, but the adjacent alley the Slayer was so keen on taking a gander at was badly lit enough that Spike couldn’t see into it even with his vampiric sight. He squinted into the blackness, struggling.

The Slayer charged forwards with all the forethought and grace of a wild buffalo. That was his Slayer, all right.

“Can’t hear a heartbeat, Slayer,” Spike informed her. “Nobody close but us chickens. Nobody alive, anyway.”

“Quiet, Spike,” she said, as if he was the one making all the noises. 

Fine, then. He wouldn’t be helpful. He was about to bite back with some snarky comment on her heavy trodding and the racket she was making… but that wasn’t part of the plan now, was it? Bloody hell, this was going to get annoying fast.

And then came the smell. It hit him instantaneously, and if he’d been human Spike was sure he’d have vomited all over his shiny boots. God, it was foul. Foul and familiar. And if the smell was what he thought it was, Spike and the Slayer had just wandered into a shitload of trouble.

“I can feel it,” she whispered to him. “And it’s strong. There’s a whole bunch of power somewhere here. There’s--”

But Spike would never know what else the Slayer felt, because she cut herself off with a sharp intake of breath.

Spike didn’t think he’d ever seen the Slayer afraid before. Sure, she’d been crying out like a frightened bunny that Halloween she dressed herself up as a pretty princess, but that hadn’t been Buffy. The two things simply didn’t seem to mix; from past experience, Spike could safely say the Slayer was infinitely more likely to rip open fear and pummel it to a gruesome death before she succumbed to it. She was the thing monsters had nightmares about. But just for a second as they stood together in the murky alleyway, he swore he saw her shiver.

And for once he couldn’t blame her.

They were surrounded by a mountain of corpses.


	10. In which we have CSI: Sunnydale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's past 1AM but I thought I'd post this before going to bed. :)

“Bloody hell,” Spike said. “Now that’s disgusting.”

By his own count, there had to be at least eighteen - maybe nineteen? - corpses piled by their feet. They had been placed there haphazardly, limbs flailing about at odd angles. Most of them were still clothed, but ragged and dirty like they’d been torn in odd places. 

The stench was still making him ill, but at least now he could put a name to the scent. He’d almost forgotten what rotten flesh smelled like. And from the way his body was reacting, that had been a good thing.

“I mean,” he continued. “That’s really disgusting. And that’s coming from me, Slayer. I’ve seen some bad shit in my time.” 

The Slayer didn’t respond. It was like somebody had hit the off switch on her ‘loud, perky, and self-righteous’ mode. Huh. It would have been nice to know she had an off button back when he was, say, trying to kill her. Maybe that whole nasty business with the organ could have been avoided. But no, he’d had to do everything the hard way.

Spike turned to her, his face dour. 

“I can’t…” she began, her voice weak. “It’s too dark for me to see properly.”

Oh. The Slayer was good, but his enhanced sight was putting him two steps ahead. Spike grabbed his lighter from his coat pocket, and as he was about to flip it open, he stopped.

“Want a light, Slayer?” he asked slowly. “The view isn’t… well, I’m not at Disneyland here.” 

“I can handle it, Spike,” Buffy said, maybe not as firmly as he guessed she intended.

“If you say so.”

Let there be light, then. The flicker of flame from his lighter illuminated the bodies, and it did not make the sight any more appealing. So instead, Spike watched the Slayer. She didn’t flinch, her eyes fixed intensely on the sight before them.

And then, ever so slowly, Buffy stepped forward and leaned down. A small hand reached out and stopped only a few inches from the nearest rotting body.

“What could have done this?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “Spike, these guys were--”

“Human,” he finished. The way his insides were shifting at the smell of their blood was more than enough to determine that, even without a close up. “They’re human, all of ‘em.”

With morbid interest, Spike looked to the Slayer as the meaning of his words played out across her face. For a moment, her mask slipped, and he found something he’d almost given up on searching for: the sight of Buffy Summers breaking down. She was vulnerable and innocent and lost. It was what he’d wanted for so long, wasn’t it? 

The anti-climax washed over him like dirt.

When her bottom lip trembled, something in his chest dropped, and Spike frowned himself. What was wrong with him? This should be a right treat. He’d killed Slayers before, but he’d never broken them. From what he’d seen, that was damn near impossible. 

But maybe that was it? While the Slayer was his enemy still, he did have to respect the girl. Buffy was nothing short of a force of nature in her fighting and her attitude. And so Spike couldn’t be blamed if he thought it was bloody unnatural to see her like this, could he?

Whatever the reason, Spike was standing in that alley with a hand on the Slayer’s shoulder before he figured out what he was doing with himself. 

Buffy didn’t react to his touch. He’d expected something, at least: a slap, a glare, or maybe a snappy insult or two while she threw him off. But there was nothing. She was on the ground, and if she was any stiller someone might mistake her for a corpse herself.

Maybe they stood like that for seconds, or maybe it was for minutes. It would always feel like longer.

Finally, he broke the spell. “Buffy.”

She didn’t reply instantly. He watched as she straightened up, shaking something with herself. And when she turned to him, her face was set in a hard line. If the Slayer had a game face, he supposed this was it. She was braced for battle.

Spike failed to push down the feeling of relief that flooded him. Something in the world had been out of place, seeing his Slayer so weak. When there was fire in her eyes everything was as it should be.

“There are nineteen bodies,” Buffy said, her voice now calm and authoritative. “Nineteen. We’ll have to-- we’ll have to remember that for later. Can you tell me how old they are?”  
It didn’t occur to Spike that she was talking to him until that fierce gaze was brought upon him. He made a show of sniffing the air, as if his sense weren’t completely and disgustingly overwhelmed by the smell already.

“They’re pretty fresh,” he told her. “But it varies from corpse to corpse, yeah? Some are a couple of days old, and some are a couple of hours. Someone’s been busy.”

“Nineteen,” Buffy repeated flatly. “And in the last couple of days? Even with Sunnydale’s mortality rate, someone’s bound to notice.”

“Could help you in identifying them,” Spike suggested, and then caught himself. “If you’re going to be involving yourself in this bloody mess, Slayer.”

He was running out of time as it was. If the Slayer was going to be dashing off to solve some little mystery, he’d have even less time to charm her. And now that Spike had a plan, there was no way in hell he was going to jump ship.

“I have to,” she said, as if it was obvious. “It’s my job.” 

“Is it now?” Spike raised an eyebrow. “Thought you were supposed to be a Vampire Slayer, not Sherlock frigging Holmes.” 

“It’s my job,” Buffy echoed. “I don’t care which creepy demon thing murdered these people. This is my town. It’s my responsibility.” 

Ah, so that was what she thought. Spike probably should have guessed. The Slayer was nothing if not prejudiced against things that went bump in the night. Well, prejudiced unless they came in the form of tall, brooding ponces. Then she shagged them.

“Now, now.” He stared at her pointedly. “I don’t know what it looks like to you, Slayer, but I don’t see any big red flags saying whoever did this was a demon.” 

As if the concept couldn’t quite fit inside her demon-slaughtering head, she paused. “What?”

Spike shrugged. “Just sayin’, that’s all. Could be you have the regular type of crazy murderer on your hands. The kind with a nine-to-five job and a white picket fence.” 

“In Sunnydale?” the Slayer asked dubiously. “The centre of all things messed up and magical?”

“Stranger things have happened at sea,” Spike told her. “Matter of fact, there was this one time with Peaches--”

The Slayer made a face of distaste. “What?”

“It’s a phrase,” Spike clarified.

Buffy rolled her eyes. “And I’m so not interested. Why are you so sure the murderer isn’t a demon?”

“I’m not,” he replied simply. “Just think you’re making assumptions, that’s all. Besides, take another look at the bodies.”

To his surprise, the Slayer did just that without arguing. Odd.

“See?” Spike said, stooping to hold his lighter closer for her. “How would you say they got offed?”

Slowly, the Slayer came back to him. “There are… lots of long cuts all over the bodies. Which, by the way, is totally ew. But they seem to be the only real injuries.”

“Then it looks like they all died from blood loss, doesn’t it?” he said, his arms crossed smugly. “Someone’s been cuttin’ away at ‘em, one wound at a time. Until they eventually died, that is. Nasty.”

“That,” Buffy said with a long and sharp look at Spike, “sounds like draining. Which is what vampires do.” 

“Come on, Slayer,” Spike scoffed. “I’ve been with you for days now, and you can’t tell me some of these bodies aren’t fresh.” 

Buffy frowned. “Actually, I wasn’t talking about you. You’re not a threat anymore.” 

Spike stopped looking smug. Yeah, she’d see how long that confidence lasted after she’d fallen at his feet all pathetic and love-sick. His bite would be back with a vengeance -- and the best part? She’d be practically begging for him to take her. After all the Slayer’s snide remarks, it would be poetic justice. His favourite kind.

Except… 

Well, the Slayer tended to spice life up, didn’t she? Sure, that particular little quirk of hers hadn’t always worked in Spike’s favour in the past. He’d hated it, even. But even with it being a Hellmouth, he didn’t figure Sunnyhell would be quite the same without a certain blond running around bashing in skulls for kicks (and the greater good, he supposed.) Honestly? When she was gone, the town would be bloody boring.

And that was something Spike would be dusted before telling her.

Still, the logistics of letting the Slayer live was something he could figure out later. After he’d gotten on with the important part of the plan.

“Any vampire could have done this,” Buffy said, biting down on her lip.

“Anyone could have done this,” Spike corrected. 

“Uh, hello? They’ve been drained. That makes this a blood thing.” Buffy gestured to the bodies. “You know who likes blood things, Spike?”

“The Red Cross?”

“Vampires!” Buffy finished. “Vampires like blood things. Ergo, vampires.”

“Hadn’t noticed, pet,” he said dryly. “But you’re wrong, you know.” 

Buffy put her hands on her hips. “Are you trying to tell me vampires don’t have a blood thing?”

While he could, Spike lit up a smoke. There wasn’t a chance in hell the Slayer would let him do that once they got back to the house, no matter how old-school detective it looked.

“Nah,” he said. “I’m just saying it’s universal. Everyone has a blood thing. Blood is life, after all.”

“Huh?”

“And there’s plenty more uses for blood than just a nummy treat,” Spike went on. “All sorts of crazy, goat-shagging rituals require it. Ask your witch friend.”

“Spare me the goat-shagging thingy,” the Slayer said. “But around here, vampires tend to be the most common problem.” Her eyes narrowed. “You should know.”

“That I should,” Spike replied with a slow, toothy smile -- until he remembered the plan. Right. The big bad had to hide away while he got into the Slayer’s pants. No intimidation. Unless she was into that kind of thing? Though knowing her past history and infatuation with Angel’s pleading puppy dog eyes, maybe not. 

“But vampires have fangs,” he said. “Those long cuts you got there? No doubt they’re from a knife. Probably a big one.” 

The Slayer was quiet. And then she stood up once more, paced around for a few moments, stopped, paced around once more, and then finally grew still. Spike watched her.

“We have to find Giles,” Buffy said at last. “He’ll know what to do.”

“Really?” Spike gave her a look. “I imagine he’ll just frown and polish his glasses a little bit more than usual.”

“Shut up, Spike.” Buffy stared at the corpses in distaste. “I guess we’ll just have to leave the bodies here and hope nobody stumbles on them in the meantime. The last thing we need are cops everywhere.”

“What a shame,” he drawled. “Was hopin’ to take one of these guys back home as a souvenir. Maybe put a dismembered limb into my scrapbook.”

“Funny,” the Slayer said in a tone that implied it was clearly anything but. “We’ll go to Giles’ place then. Follow me. And try not to look so… Spike-ish. You stand out.”

With a last grimace at the bodies, Buffy spun on her heel and started to march back off on her next greatest quest in the name of the Forces of Good and Light and Rainbows and All That Goodie-Goodie Jazz™. Spike was just about to shoot back some clever comment in retaliation (probably about her hair, he decided, because it was so… long and stupid) when he saw it.

There was a flash of gold. He might not have noticed it had his senses not been so superb, but hey: being a vampire had its perks. Eyesight was one of them, alongside having really well conditioned skin and healthy iron levels. 

But Spike saw what he saw. Almost buried underneath a stray floppy (and decidedly dead) limb, there lay a golden chain. Curious, he bent down to pick it up. It was only a small little thing, really, and it didn’t look so expensive either. Nothing he’d ever buy. But it was a golden amulet that he held.

Weird. Maybe he could pawn it off and get some dosh?

Spike had only been holding it for a few minutes when everything went to shit.

“Spike! Behind you!”

At the Slayer’s shout, he swung round to come face to face with a walking corpse. Well, fuck. Wasn’t it just his lucky day? Out of reflex, Spike ducked back and pulled himself firmly out of the creature’s reach. But all around him, other corpses were waking up for the party.

The Slayer was beside him in an instant, her fists bared. She would hardly be able to see a thing with her plain human vision, but hopefully instinct would be enough. Especially slayer-instinct.

Oh, bloody hell. Here he was, the big bad, letting the Slayer fight his corner while he sat back and watched. But what could he do? These days, there was no way Spike could throw a punch without the witch-bitch’s spell messing everything up. He couldn’t harm a single living creature, no, so it wasn’t like--  
Hang on.

Desperately, Spike threw himself forward and aimed an experimental punch at the nearest corpse. For the first time since the spell, his fist successfully met flesh, and he couldn’t help but whoop with joy.

“They’re dead!” he yelled in delight, pummelling a corpse to the ground. “This is bloody excellent, Slayer! It’s like Christmas.” 

“Wow, I’m glad you’re getting off on a brutal mass homicide,” the Slayer said, kicking a corpse right in the face. “Really puts things in perspective.” 

But they worked well together. It should have been strange fighting by the Slayer’s side, but with the heat of battle and the news that he could kick undead arse, Spike had barely even noticed. The two of them worked in unison, back to back as they fought exactly as two well-trained killers should fight. God, he had missed this.

Maybe all those low-budget zombies flicks had gotten something right, because the corpses came at them exactly in the way that you’d think. All grumbling and stumbling, lashing out at whatever they could reach. Stupid buggers, he decided. But when one managed to get a good grip on his arm, he discovered they were strong buggers too.

“Fuck you,” he said cheerfully, as he straddled his assailant and punched his stupid, dead face into the ground. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, and fuck you. Fuck. You--”

“Spike!”

Oh, fuck you.

While Spike had been ending the single corpse to get a hit on him, the remaining eighteen had been ganging up on the Slayer. And she was good, he knew, but they just kept coming and coming.

“Hang on,” he grunted, scrambling to his feet.

Spike rushed the group surrounding Buffy, throwing his whole body into the ring. It scattered some of them, at least, but it wouldn’t be long before they simply got back up again. Great. Now, Spike loved a good fight, but if your opponent was bloody unkillable then it just took all the fun out of winning.

“Spike,” Buffy said. “They just keep coming. We need to get out of here. Quickly, you have to--”

But Spike would never know what he had to do, because he saw the knife.

The other corpses had been coming at them with fists and nails alone, biting and scratching, but this one was different. He saw the protrusion of metal even in the darkness, and instantly he was prepared to disarm the corpse with a well-aimed jab. It wouldn’t be too hard, not really--

But the corpse wasn’t coming for Spike. It was coming for Buffy. Buffy, who could barely see what was in front of her in this lighting.

“Get out of the way!” he screamed.

The Slayer was engaged in a grapple with three other corpses. The silly chit didn’t even hear. She was going to get sliced open like the mortal thing she was. With the right kind of stab wound, she’d probably do something stupid and human like die. She’d probably bleed all over his coat, too. 

He couldn’t have that.

Spike had moved before he knew it. He pushed himself in front of Buffy just as the knife-wielding corpse made its move. He felt it all: the metal tearing through his shirt, piercing into his flesh, and Buffy’s quickening of the breath from beside him.

Well, shit. He’d never tell anyone the Slayer didn’t take him to all the nicest parties.


	11. In which there is a trade

“Keep still.”

“Ow!”

“I said keep still.”

The Slayer stood over him menacingly, a bundle of bandages poised and ready in her hands. Her glare was growing increasingly pointed - never a good sign, Spike had found.

“A nice bedside manner wouldn’t hurt, love,” Spike shot at her. “I did just take a knife to the bloody gut for you, yeah?”

“I am nice,” Buffy told him, coming at him with the bandages once more. “But you’re not in a bed. You’re on Giles’ couch, and you’re bleeding all over it. So keep still.”

Spike made a show of rolling his eyes, but he did just that. Trust the Slayer to find something to nag at him about even after he’d played the hero. It wasn’t like he’d just gone and saved her life or anything, was it?

After their little re-enactment of Night of the Living Dead, Buffy had insisted on making their way to her Watcher’s place. Despite, y’know, the giant bleeding wound that a human probably would have walked into an early grave from. No, no. Whatever the Watcher had to say was obviously so much more important than stopping Spike’s insides from spilling out.

Although the aforementioned Watcher wasn’t doing much talking at the moment. Just a whole lot of glasses-polishing.

“Zombies? Actual zombies?” The prat, Harris, had turned up like a bad penny too. Because of course he bloody had. “So, wait. Are we talking full on Resident Evil style zombies here, or something else?”

“You think they were zombies?” Buffy asked, her brow furrowed.

“Well, yeah. Walking corpses? I’m thinking that’s kinda the definition of a zombie, Buff,” Harris said with a shrug. “Right, Will?”

“After all those awful zombie flicks you made me watch when we were twelve?” Red almost grinned. “Yep. Sounds pretty zombie-ish to me. That’s probably not a good thing though.”

For someone who had disappeared from the party without a trace, Red sure had turned up at Giles’ quickly enough after he’d put the word out. If he’d been less preoccupied with the gaping wound he’d so recently acquired, Spike thought he might have found it a tad suspicious. 

The Slayer finished her handiwork on Spike’s bare chest, tying up the bandage with practised precision. Temporarily, a brief pang of pride flashed across her face as she patted just above his fancy new battle wound -- and then remembered who exactly she was touching, and shifted back a few inches. As if she’d done something horrible, Buffy’s eyes darted around the room to see if her slip had been spotted. It hadn’t, but Spike made sure to smirk as he met her eyes regardless.

“I’m done,” Buffy announced grandly. “You can put your shirt on now.”

“Can’t handle the distraction, Slayer?” Spike replied, his eyes dancing. “Don’t think anyone couldn’t blame you. After all--”

Buffy tossed Spike’s beat-up black tee at his head. 

“Little gratitude might be nice,” Spike grumbled. “If I hadn’t been there, it would have been bye-bye Blondie the Vampire Smoocher and hello to a shiny, new Buffy-sized corpse. Just sayin’.”

Buffy’s gaze fell on him as he spoke, and she opened her mouth as if to say something--

“Wait,” Harris said. “If some zombie came at the evil dead here, does that mean he’s infected now?”

As if the infection could be transmitted through glib looks alone, Harris shuffled a few inches to the other side of the room. 

Finally, the Watcher looked up from his glasses. “There’s no scientific evidence that zombies can infect others with their bites. From what I’ve read, that does just seem to be a popular myth perpetuated by media.”

“‘sides,” Spike added. “I wasn’t bit. I took a knife to the gut. Lot cleaner than letting some mangy corpse get their teeth on my skin. ‘Cause that’s only fun when the one doing the biting is my type.”

“Buffy, you never mentioned the fate of these zombies,” the Watcher said, as if Spike had never spoken. “Did you manage to defeat them on your own?”

Oh, wasn’t that charming? Like Spike was some bleeding liability.

“Uh, sort of,” Buffy said slowly. “Spike and I were fighting them together, but after he sav-- well, after he got stabbed, all the corpses just stopped. No more creepy. Apart from the fact they were still, you know, dead people.” 

“What?” The Watcher leaned forwards. “They stopped?”

“Yeah.” The Slayer made a face. “They all just dropped to the ground. Whoosh. Like they’d never tried to do the whole Slayer-slaying act in the first place.” 

“And you didn’t notice anything unusual?” the Watcher pressed.

Buffy blinked. “Apart from the, um, actual zombies?” 

“They do tend to steal the spotlight,” Harris butted in.

The Watcher shook his head. “No signs of magical intervention? None at all?”

Signs of ‘magical intervention’? Hell, there had been actual bloody zombies chasing them around. What more did Rupert want? Rainbows? Kittens? Some big sign saying ‘come catch me - much love, the killer’? It’s not like he and Buffy hadn’t had their fists full. They hadn’t had time to hunt around for clues like mystery god damn inc--

Unconsciously, Spike’s hand had found its way to his pockets of his duster, which lay on his lap.

Tucked safely in the left pocket was the rose. He didn’t dare to whip it out now, but there was no doubt that this whole corpse business had cost Spike even more time on the clock. After Harmony’s little petal tearing stunt, time was not something he could spare. Plus, he was no closer to wooing the Slayer. Even after taking a knife to the gut for her, all he’d gotten in return were a few secretive glances when she thought her friends weren’t looking. 

Maybe he’d have to turn up the charm?

But the rose wasn’t what Spike was after.

His fingers clasped around the amulet in the opposite pocket. He’d picked it up because… well, hey, pawning it off for some extra cash couldn’t hurt. But considering he’d found it under a bleeding corpse -- which was not something he was going to tell the pawnbroker, he decided -- then the Watcher would probably count it as a clue, wouldn’t he?

Well, there was fat chance of that. The amulet was Spike’s now.

“No,” Buffy said, the corners of her mouth turned down. “No weird signs.”

She looked so defeated. Something shifted inside of Spike, all wriggly and uncomfortable. Maybe it was his internal organs noticing he’d been bloody stabbed, but it just didn’t sit right.

Oh, fuck it. It’s not like the amulet would have sold for more than a couple of dollars anyhow. And if it was going to win him brownie points with the Slayer? This would be worth it.

“You’re barkin’ up the wrong tree, Rupert,” Spike chimed in. “Maybe you should try askin’ the dashingly handsome vamp in the room.”

“Spike, those of us with souls and some sense of morality here are trying to talk,” the Watcher replied coolly. “If you don’t have anything useful to say, please kindly shut up.”

Well then. Really, Spike should refuse to cough up his little gem just for that piece of cheek. But he had Slayers to gain the trust of, didn’t he?

“As a matter of fact…” Spike fished the amulet out of his pocket. “Got something for you right here. Little trinket I found at the scene of the crime, so to speak. Figured you might like a gawk at it, Rupes.”

Enjoying the older man’s look of shock, Spike flung his amulet on the coffee table for all to see. Ah, there it was: all four Scoobies were nice and shocked like he’d ruffled their feathers just right. It was priceless.

“I didn’t know you took something,” Buffy said sharply.

“Sorry, pet.” Spike rolled his eyes. “I was jus’ a little busy getting stabbed. I don’t know if you noticed.” 

“Hey, maybe it’s some kind of reanimation device,” Red said, picking it up from the table. “We can use this. There has to be some kind of reference to objects holding power over the dead in the books, right?”

“Yes, well, I’d think so.” The Watcher bristled. “Willow and I will spend time later researching the amulet. However, we do need to discuss the reason the bodies were out there in the first place.”

Spike scrunched up his nose. Even remembering that smell gave him shudders.

He snorted. “They were there for a little song and dance, Rupes. Or maybe they were - I dunno - murdered. I get those two confused all the time. It’s a soulless demon thing.”

Harris ignored him. “So did you pick up on how they died?”

Buffy shifted from beside Spike. “Yup. Blood loss. They’d been completely drained.”

“So it was probably a vamp then, huh?” Red asked.

Harris eyed Spike in an instant.

“Oh, what? You’re on my case?” Spike had to hold back a snort. “I’ve been a good boy. Ask the Slayer.”

“You know he’s been with me, Xand.” Buffy nodded. Well, at least she wasn’t throwing him to the wolves. “Plus, it wasn’t necessarily a vamp. They weren’t bitten. They were cut.” 

“Nineteen bodies,” the Watcher mused. “Perhaps there’s some significance to that particular number. We’ll cross reference it with the amulet. But for now we should focus on finding whoever did this.”

“And stopping them,” Buffy added darkly.

“Yes, quite,” said the Watcher. “However, we are left almost entirely without leads.”

“We could go search the bodies again,” Harris suggested, and then stopped. “Ew. I can’t believe I just said that with a straight face.”

The Watcher didn’t like that. “No, we don’t want to draw attention to ourselves. The bodies will undoubtedly be discovered eventually, and if someone reports that one of us was spotted examining them, we’ll be suspects numbers one to five.” 

“One to five?” Spike scoffed. “No way. You’re not dragging me any further into your little investigat--” Wait. Buffy. His face softened. “I s’pose I can lend a hand while I’m here anyway. If you’d like.”

The Slayer didn’t seem at all that impressed at his altruism -- but then, when did she ever?

“You’re right, Giles,” Buffy said. “We should stay away from the crime scene. Or it’ll be like that thing with Faith all over again.”

“Then how are we supposed to track down the killer?” Harris asked. “Seems like we’ve got nothing.”

There was a moment of silence. Spike leaned back, scraping at his nail polish. There were only a few flakes left on his hand. Hey, maybe if he asked nicely, the Slayer would lend him some of hers.

“Hey! I’ve got it,” Red exclaimed loudly, and then beamed. “Well, I have an idea. I think it’s good. It’s based on something I was reading the other day. I was reading up on some pretty complex spells -- not too complex or anything, Giles, it’s all pretty safe -- but I wanted something cool to show at this Wicca group meeting I’m thinking about going to on campus. Anyway, there’s a spell I could do that would tell us who killed those people.”

“You mean, communicating with the dead?” Harris asked. “‘Cause I have a spare Ouija board.”

“It’s not a direct link with the dead,” Red admitted. “In fact, uh, I’m not entirely sure what kind of clue the spell would give us. But something is better than nothing, right?”

“You’re quite sure it’s safe?” asked Giles.

“Should be,” Red said. “I mean, yeah. Perfectly safe.”

“Right then,” Spike said, watching the Slayer. “We’ll go do this spell thing, yeah? And then we’ll get right on hunting down the dastardly fiend behind this whole thing. Maybe even save a few stray kittens on the way. It’ll be a right hoot.” He grinned. “Three cheers for team whitehats, right? Hurrah and all that jazz.”

They all stared at him.

“What?” he asked innocently. “Jus’ trying to be supportive, that’s all.”

Harris turned to the Slayer. “What have you been feeding Spike? Is he ill or something?”

“Oi,” he defended. “Can’t a man at least try to change his ways? Must I always be forced onto the path of evil?”

“Spike,” the Watcher said. “You’ve tried to kill us all. Multiple times, in fact.”

“And I’m properly sorry ‘bout that.” Spike thought about it. “Actually, nah. I’m really not. It was a barrel of laughs at the time. But I won’t be doing it again.”

Not until he got his bite back, at least. But they didn’t need to know that bit.

“Right,” the prat Harris sneered. “Because you’re just so trustworthy. Why isn’t he tied up, anyway?”

Buffy sighed. “He does have a serious stab wound, Xander. I’m watching him closely. There’s no way he could escape.”

Oh, so she was watching him closely, was she? He made sure to flex his bare arms just a little bit. 

“Could we focus on the problem at hand here?” the Watcher asked. “We can deal with Spike another day. Willow, your spell?”

“Right,” Red said. “Uh, hang on a second. I think I had the book in my bag for some light reading.”

She pulled out a tome almost as heavy as Spike imagined the little witch weighed herself.

“Boy,” Harris quipped. “Were you planning on reading this before or after War and Peace?”

Red flipped through a few pages. “Okay, here. I need a few things for this to work. Some of them are easy; it’s mostly just basic stuff. I’m pretty sure I can find most of this at the magic shop. But there’s some ingredients that are a little trickier.”

“I hate tricky,” Buffy said under her breath. “Tricky never ends well with us.”

“The whole ritual seems to revolve around life and death, see? For obvious reasons. But that means there’s a whole bunch of icky things involved.” Red bit her lip.

“As long as I don’t have to shag any goats and or bathe in a tub of eels under the moonlight,” Spike said.

“For one? I need the blood of a human who has touched one of the bodies post-mortem,” Red continued. “And that would be--”

“Me,” Buffy said. “Because my night is never quite complete without a little bit of bloodletting.”

Red looked apologetic, but she went on. “I need an object connected to the bodies. We can use the amulet for that. And finally, I need the blood of the dead.”

The Watcher looked down. “Considering that it would be unwise to go near the bodies--”

“No, no,” Red said. “Not those bodies. I just need to provide a link with death. Any dead person will do.”

It took a second for her words to sink in.

“Oh, god no.” Spike laughed. “Bloody hell, no. No. No way in hell, sunshine. You can stay away from me with your witchy ways. I’ve had more than enough of messed up spells for one unlife, thank you.”  
Harris looked like it was his bleeding birthday. “Nobody asked you, Spike. You might have forgotten that you’re Buffy’s prisoner here.”

“I don’t give a damn!” he yelled. “It’s wrong, it is. You can’t force me.”

“We’ll see about that,” Harris told him.

But Red was shaking her head. “No, he’s right. The blood - both the blood of life and the blood of death - has to be given willingly. It won’t work otherwise. Sorry, Xander.”

“Hah,” Spike crowed, folding his arms in triumph. “So you’re all going to have to find another way. Leave me outta this.”

“What happened to being all ‘yay, team Slayer’?” Buffy asked, her head tilted. But Buffy couldn’t just ask, could she? No. She had to look at him with those wide hazel eyes and hope.

And wouldn’t this further his cause? If he played nice and let the Scoobies play at their witchy fun times with his blood, Spike would be lending them a hand without a doubt. That would teach them for scoffing at his declaration to help them, wouldn’t it? Maybe they’d even begin to trust him. Desperate times called for desperate measures. And boy, was he desperate.

More importantly, Buffy needed this. Spike could show her he was someone to depend on. Chits loved that, didn’t they? So she’d be falling at his feet in no time at all. It was all part of the plan.

“Please, Spike,” Buffy spoke, all soft and pouty.

He knew what he had to do. But at the same time, he had a job to do here. And he didn’t have long to do it. In the back of his mind, the inklings of an idea started to form. 

“Alright, Slayer,” Spike told her slowly. “I’ll cut you a deal.”

And just like that, all that softness on Buffy’s face was replaced with suspicion. 

“What kind of deal?” she questioned with narrowed eyes.

“Slayer.” Spike moved to stand up, trying not to grimace when his wound hurt like a bitch. “This is between me an’ you, pet. I’ll discuss the terms of our arrangement outside.”

“Like hell you will,” Harris scoffed. “We’re not letting Buffy go out there alone with you.”

Ordinarily, Spike might have even been flattered. At least Harris, despite his whole being-a-massive-prat problem, was showing the big bad some respect in worrying about him. The rest of the world seemed so eager to label him as yesterday’s pizza.  
But if the prat heard what Spike had to say, it was going to cause a bleeding shit ton of trouble. 

“If you want your blood, you’ll lemme talk with the Slayer alone,” Spike repeated firmly.

Buffy was watching him carefully. He scanned her face in detail, but whatever was going on inside that Slayer-brain of hers was a complete mystery.

“I can handle one neutered vampire, Xander,” Buffy said finally, and to his relief she followed Spike outside.


End file.
